


Fic Dump

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bathing/Washing, Fluff and Angst, Headcanon, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, No Plot/Plotless, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Fics that I've started but never finishedunedited
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. buckytony - Of Eucalyptus and Bath

The pink hue of the bath water is a lovely contrast to the pure white of the ceramic bathtub. Each ripple sending the water crashing up its wall and Tony sighs in appreciation of the beauty of it all.

He has Bucky in his arms. Fragile but whole.

The nightmare having done a number on him that Tony suggested a bath at 3 o’clock in the morning.

Nothing extensive, just warm water and a eucalyptus scented bath bomb that works a treat for Bucky’s mind and Tony’s exhausted body.

They’ve been working themselves too hard.

Tony, stuck with projects after projects – for both SI and the Avengers – while Bucky, with his back to back missions. Tony’s passion for creating and Bucky’s for destroying HYDRA took a toll on their well beings and they’re both facing the repercussion on an, ironically, Thanksgiving eve.

Tony would like to chastise Bucky; tell him that he’s been working hard. But that would be hypocritical. A pot calling a kettle. So he sighs and sinks down lower, the hand over Bucky’s stomach pressing gently, manoeuvring.

The new position allows him to fully relax his shoulders and he tips his head back just as Bucky groans softly and snuggles closer to Tony.

He idly wonders what kind of picture they paint together; with Tony’s shorter and smaller frame playing a big spoon to Bucky’s super soldier one. It’s not like it’s new. They’ve done this a countless times. Sometimes, more than other, Bucky needs consoling, holding – just Tony to wrap himself around him and cage him from the rest of the world so he can breathe – and Tony is more that willing to do that for him.

In fact, there is little to none Tony wouldn’t do for Bucky.

Eating slugs and insects, for one, and giving up coffee, for another.

And that’s about it. The rest, in a blink of an eye. Tony will play Bucky’s knight in shining armour many times and more. Because he loves him.

Yeah.

That.

He tightens the hold around Bucky’s waist, pulling him closer as he tips his head forward and inhales a lungful of Bucky’s scent; his other hand – looped around long neck - carding fingers through long brown locks. The small cut on his ring finger from a little slip in the workshop earlier stings, but Tony pays it no mind, watching Bucky as much as he wants from this angle. Free in his will, with no fear of being caught admiring by the man himself, he lets his heart swell and his feelings sing – the emotions softening the sharp edges of his eyes, the look that his body reserves for only things and people Tony loves the most.

And Bucky Barnes is one of them.

Top two.

JARVIS is his son after all.

“You’re staring.” Bucky’s voice rumbles lowly in their private bubble. The vibration travels to Tony’s scar laden chest from Bucky’s broad back.

“Am not.” Tony denies instinctively.

It’s all nice and lovely to let his feeling float as long as Bucky doesn’t know about it. It’s not that Tony doesn’t trust Bucky with it, it’s just –

Bucky doesn’t know yet.

He doesn’t know _exactly_ how Tony feels about him. He doesn’t know what kind of power he holds over Tony simply by appearing in his line of sight. With his twinkling blue-grey eyes and his charming smile.

Or the way he makes it clear, just to whom Tony belongs with.

The weight of his hands when he intertwines their fingers together and the way he loses his shit when he finds out Tony has been cooped up too long in that workshop of his – looks like JARVIS has found himself a fave and Tony’d be damned if he questions about it.

Because Bucky is Tony’s favourite too.

His favourite soldier. Favourite man. Favourite person. Just –

Favourite everything.

“Mmm.” Bucky hums, the sarcasm layered thick beneath that tone and Tony hunches forward consciously, pressing his fingers along the hard planes of Bucky’s abdomen. He’s rewarded with a broken laugh and he presses a fluttering kiss over Bucky’s left shoulder – along the mesh of scar that separates his skin from the metal.

Bucky picks at his hand on his stomach and intertwines their fingers together, bringing Tony’s knuckles up to his lips for kisses that send shudders down Tony’s spine.

“You’re too good for me.” He says. His breath fanning hotly over Tony’s skin. “Dunno what I did to deserve you but -,” He pauses to take a shuddering inhale, his whole being quaking while Tony holds his own breath in. Waiting.

“But I’m never giving you up. Gonna keep you forever.” And he turns slowly in Tony’s hold, blue-grey searching in his browns.

The lump that has lodged itself into Tony’s throat is grating when he swallows it. His heart sprinting a tad too excitedly which is bad for him but he cannot help it. Just how he cannot help how his skin starts to burn under Bucky’s steady gaze and he wants to run and hide.

Chuck a number of jokes, something he does best or maybe brush everything aside as if they’re something light. Nothing serious. Nothing big.

But he _can’t._

Not with Bucky. Not with the man who’s gone through so much and came out of his shell, looking more beautiful than a butterfly. Not when every time he touches Tony, he makes sure Tony knows and wants it. When he’s so careful to not cross the line. To not assume and make an independent leap because he doesn’t want to frighten Tony. Doesn’t want to scare him away.

Because he knows exactly what it is like. To have consent ripped out of his throat.

Hence, with him looking up at Tony, quietly questioning with his patient gaze, Tony cannot joke about it.

So Tony kisses him.

Soft and slow, the pink water sloshing over the white ceramic, sending eucalyptus scent floating in the air and he makes sure to hold Bucky’s eyes - clutching onto him with all of his strength – and he whispers a promise,“Forever.”


	2. stuckony - high school au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was how teenage dream was born

Steve would rather collapse head first into his bed than put up another second with his homework. It’s been quite a challenging day; juggling with the year book, his failing grades in physics and trying to evade Bucky’s persistent attempts to set him up on dates. Add to that, his ma keeps teaming up with Bucky to ruin his life too.

It’s not like Steve isn’t interested. It’s just that he doesn’t see the point of going on them when they all end the same way; he’ll sweat himself up for the days or hours leading up to the event and when he finally meets his date, they’ll take one look at him and turn the other way around. Without a single word.

Steve doesn’t blame them. Not when he knows himself is not much of a looker. Five feet four with 90 pounds soaking wet to his frame. Nobody in their right mind is going to look at him twice. No matter how much Bucky or his mother insist that he’s got a good looking face on him. _“As long as you don’t go looking for troubles which keep ruining your nose alignment.”_

Besides, it’s not like Steve is lonely anyway. He got his ma, Bucky, his physics grade and the year book to worry about. Especially the year book. Because people for no valid reasons keep pushing him up the lockers just because he ‘dared to’ ask them for a pic or two for the year book. It’s not like he’s creeping on them and taking photos without consents. He has the damned decency to ask permission first and yet, they had to be rude about it.

Also, since when did he start failing Physics? Because as far as he knew, he was surviving that class and by surviving, it may mean barely passing but that’s sufficient for where he’s planning to go after this goddamn high school hell. Yet, they have to make it obligatory to pass physics in order to graduate. Just his rotten luck, he supposes,

“Urgh.” He groans, shutting close the unfinished physics homework. The more he stares at those equations, the quicker he’s going to develop a headache and he doesn’t need that when he has a deadline to meet with the year book committee tomorrow.

He’s zipping up his backpack when he hears the single loud thud on his window. His instinct makes him clutch at his chest in shock but he knows better to expect what follows that sound after all.

Heaving a sigh, he drags himself to open up his bedroom window, backing away just in time for another scrawny body just like his to hurl itself into his room. “Thanks Steve.”

Steve grunts his response, shutting his window close and double checking to make sure its locked. “Is he following?”

“No. Not really.” The intruder answers, exhaustion palpable in his voice and Steve thinks he hears him wince twice as he hops to the bed.

Steve shoots him a distasteful look when the guy plops on his neatly made sheet and proceed to sprawl on it, making himself at home. But Steve knows better than to waste his breath chastising him about it. “Define _not really_.”

“I lost him at the curb, Steve.” He sighs.

Now that he really looks at him, Steve notices a fresh cut to his bottom lip. Looks like it barely stopped bleeding and if he doesn’t really doubt his eyesight much, he’d say for sure that there’s a bruise forming high on the boy’s cheek.

“What the fuck did he do to you, Tony?” Steve swears, and Tony winces.

Tony Stark. The only _popular_ nerd in Carlinville High School, or perhaps in existence itself. Build as scrawny as Steve, he passes the jock’s standards merely by his height, where Steve lacks a few sad inches for himself. Although, Steve’s dead sure that they’ll accept him too, if he’s America’s top conglomerate’s only heir.

But that’s not the only thing that makes Tony who he is. At least that’s not the reason which had drawn Steve to him.

“It’s not that bad.” Tony placates and if Steve isn’t so much against violence, he feels like he’d throw a pillow at that stupid head.

Where Steve has the habit of rescuing and mother-henning wounded and lost souls, Tony has the habit of getting himself into situations that wound him. He’s embodies the definition of pain-magnet. Steve is yet to see a day without Tony wearing a concealer over some bruise or cut or whatever hit him face front.

“You have a split lip and what looks like a nasty bruise coming through your left cheekbone.” Steve hisses at him, hands already finding the first aid kit under his bed and rummaging through it. Tony knows better to keep mum, watching Steve pick roughly at pre-packaged alcohol swabs, cotton balls, and plasters.

Steve tilts his head roughly by the chin, still seething with anger, and proceeds to dap at the cut with the swabs. Tony winces and Steve presses it longer just to ease his own frustration off. “If you’d just broken up with him, none of this would happen.” He presses the dry cotton at the cut and reaches for the plaster but is stopped by Tony’s hand around his wrist. “It will exaggerate it.”

 _If you hadn’t got a cut lip, there wouldn’t be a need for this at all,_ Steve thinks, shaking off the hold on him and proceeding to peel open the plaster anyway. And because Tony is _right_ , he slaps it across his stupid forehead. “How’s that for exaggeration?”

Once he’s done nursing the bruise; which really, there’s nothing he can do about it except vocally worry that it could mean a broken bone and Tony really should get it checked out until Tony peels that plaster and slaps it across his mouth and asks him to shut up. “I want to sleep.” He announces, pulling socked feet up and wiggling them both under the blanket until only his head is poking out - mussed dark curls – like a splatter of sunflower on Steve’s pillow.

Steve turns away to check outside the window – just to make sure no one’s out there – then pushes at the corner of a book until it’s properly aligned atop its stack before switching off the table lamp and joining Tony on the bed.

He’s drifting between reality and dream when he feels an arm across his waist and he thinks he hears something about ‘if I’d broken up with him, I’d never found you’ but the T-rex with Susan Lynn’s head is charging at him hotly so he picks up his pace and ran into the ‘due-date’ tunnel for his life.

His ma is home when Steve drags Tony into the kitchen for breakfast against his protest.

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s not healthy to start a day on empty stomach.” Steve shoves him into the kitchen following through.

“Good morning, boys.” His ma smiles, tipping her glasses down her straight nose as she puts away the daily newspaper to regards them both.

Steve’s quick on his feet, ducking under a surprised Tony to hug his ma and plant a big kiss on her cheek. “Morning ma! I thought you were at work.”

“Just came back from the night shift. Take a seat, both of you. I’d whip up some cereals for ya.” Steve rolls his eyes at her, but complies nonetheless, tugging on Tony’s sleeves to do the same.

“Good morning, Mrs Rogers.” Tony seems to come around his surprise, his fingers going for the hem of his polo which Steve immediately recognizes as a nervous tick and rolls his eyes again. It’s so like Tony to feel like intruding no matter how many times he’d been explicitly told that he’s welcomed here, anytime.

A bowl of cereal lands in front of Steve, and another in front of Tony, followed by a carton of milk. “Good morning, Tony.” His ma drawls deliberately, corking a hip up as she winks at their guest making him go rosy red high on his cheeks. Steve snorts around a mouthful of cornflakes.

His ma loves to tease his friends, and while Bucky takes it at upfront; giving her just as badly, Tony faces it a little more demurely. Which makes Steve feel all the more protective of him. “Leave him be, ma.”

Tony ducks his head, stirring the spoon in a bowl of dry cereal until Mrs Rogers pours in the milk and gives a loving pat to his perpetual bed head. He thumb hovers over the bruise beneath his left eye and Steve can see the moment she swallows back her concern.

“Eat up, honey. Steve’s right. It’s not healthy to start a day on an empty stomach. You’d never guess the number of kids we had to put on drips because they fainted from that.” She tsk-ed, taking back her seat and her newspaper.

Steve’s about to ask what’s today’s highlight when the kitchen door bangs open revealing an abashed Bucky with his backpack over one shoulder. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to slam it open.”

“Uncontrollable strength?” His ma guesses with feigned innocence and Bucky grins sheepishly back. “Something like that.” Stepping in and shuffling until he got himself a bowl of cereal as well, taking the seat at the other end of the table as he pours a calculated amount of milk into his bowl. _“Gotta get the ratio right”_ Steve remembers him saying.

“You stayed the night, Tony?” Bucky asks around a mouthful, wincing when he noticed the state of his face at a closer distance. Tony mumbles a yes and they all shoot a quick glance at Mrs Rogers in unison, who’s blissfully blind to the problem.

The first time she saw Tony coming down the stairs with a black eye, she’d demanded they get it checked in the ER. And she was livid, talking about pressing charges which made Tony shrivel into himself looking so helpless and terrified that Steve had spewed out the most outrageous lie of Tony being in a boxing club and this is a norm in there and that they’ve already got it checked out and everything’s clear. “ _Don’t worry, he’s insured and perfectly safe_.”

Sometimes Steve wishes he didn’t cook that story up. In retrospect, he’s not sure if he was assuring his ma or himself then. Especially when it’s a particularly ugly bruise and he’d sweat the entire night, losing his sleep worrying if Tony will even wake up the next morning or not.

Bucky’s all up Tony the moment they’re past the Steve’s house. “This was him, wasn’t it?” He got his fingers beneath Tony’s chin, tugging it up harshly, Tony stumbles a step forward. Steve pries his hand away, putting himself in between them like a wall. Bucky’s eyes shift towards his resilient ones then up to Tony’s and he scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You both are shitheads, I swear.” They pick up their pace. “He’s already hurt enough without you rough housing him.” Steve aims a kick at his shin, checking up on Tony once again to make sure he’s following them and not staying rooted where he was.

Bucky barks a dry laugh. “Shitheads.” He repeats, shaking his head at Steve and Steve gives a harder kick, the lack of pain in that potato face bothering him something deep. He feels Tony’s arm curl around his elbow, halting, when Bucky whirls around but it’s really just a false alarm because Bucky simply stops to pet Steve mockingly on his head, unable in this lifetime to bring any serious hurt to his childhood bestie with a nasty temper to rival his stone headedness.

“And you!” Bucky point a finger at Tony. “You’re dropping that fuckface Stone this instant.”

Tony squares his shoulder and shakes his head, and Bucky lets out a frustrated groan, attracting a few other school-goers walking around them. “I don’t get it man. It’s not like he’s the only guy in the world. Heck, even I’d fuck you up the wall anytime.”

Steve lets out a surprised snort at Tony’s bewildered face. “I thought you were asexual, Buck.” His thumb reaching around Tony’s wrist instinctually to press at his jumping pulse point. He feels his own shoulder relax as Tony goes limp in his hold. Steve may be used to Bucky but Tony, not so much.

Bucky rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. The kohl around his steel-blue menacing if not for the fact that Steve has seen him break his nose from trying to climb refrigerator at seven. “I’m asexual not blind, Stevie.” Steve gives Tony one final squeeze and lets go completely, rolling his eyes back at Bucky.

-

The next time Tony jumps into Steve’s room, it’s half an hour past midnight and Steve’s flinging the Physics textbook out of his sight.

First came the thud, then came the “Ow.”

He’s on his feet in a second, heart thumping wildly because, “Shit.” And when he looks at what his anger-burst stroke, then it’s even more, “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Tony laughs, clutching at his nose, then winces when it aggravated the sharp pain. Steve fusses. “Shit, Tony. I didn’t know- I’m so sorry. It was supposed to hit the wall.” He glares at the book in accusation.

Tony splutters with laughter again as Steve pries his hands off of his nose. Steve fixes him with a nonplussed look. “This isn’t funny. I hurt you.”

“I know. I know.” Tony laughs. “I just find the irony of the whole ‘the hand that heals you is the one that hurts you’ so fucking hilarious.” And he’s tearing up from the hilarity of which only he can comprehend while Steve, his heart drops like a heavy thud in its cavity and he freezes.

Tony seems to pick on his distress. “I was joking.” The humour vanishing in his brown eyes replaced by its usual insecurity and doubts which trips Steve over his own feelings. Why does Tony has to be so damaged? He doesn’t deserve that.

“I know.” He sighs. “I just got – Well. I’m sorry. Will you -,” He tries again. Bony fingers moving to hover and press at Tony’s nose bridge. He’s responded with a wince which makes him curl his fingers back from the contact. But he also lets his eyes wonder, taking in the rest of Tony’s face; the healing bruise and the tiny, almost invisible mark on his bottom lip from that cut on Monday.

“Is it very painful?” He murmurs, worry hovering like dense clouds in his head as he shoots a quick glance to meet Tony’s eyes. Brown dazed ones blinking as he shakes his head somewhat hazily. “’s fine.” And Steve wonders what is making Tony clamp up so much until he realises all the spaces he’d accidentally erased between them.

He jerks away as if burned. Tony clears his throat and ducks his head. Steve’s hand goes reflexively to rub his nape and his eyes. Apologizes coats over his tongue but he knows that that would only make it weird – weirder – because they’ve been closer than that.

They’ve hugged. He’d held Tony so close to his chest, trying to soothe him from those wrenches sobs that ripped out of him, until he could feel every beat of Tony’s heart as if it was his own. They’d woken up tangled too tightly around each, they didn’t where one began and another end and it had spurred nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Because they’re friends.

“I’m gonna make myself cocoa. You staying?” He asks as nonchalantly as he possible can when his weird heart is hammering against his chest. Tony looks up with pink ears, brown eyes curiously big. “It’s only Jarvis at home.” He shrugs. What Steve hears is; _“I’m so lonely, keep me company please?”_

“Cool. C’mon.” And they set down to the kitchen. Steve wondering idly if his ma will be back by tomorrow’s breakfast or not. It is Friday night, after all. The more people wander out, the more prone they are to accidents and stuffs. Which means, Steve may just have to wait until Saturday evening to see his ma’s face.

-

“Up. Up. Shitheads! It’s fucking Saturday bitches!”

Steve lets out a broken groan, yanking the pillow over his head and pressing it over his ears. Tony moans painfully next time, burrowing fluffy head into Steve’s side and up the crook of his neck. Steve swings one bony arm over another scrawny shoulder and pulls him in.

Something wet lands splat on his bare back. “What the hell, Buck!?” The last tendril of sleep gone, Steve half turns from his stomach down position on the bed to glare at the demon sent especially to summon him from sleep. A quick glance at the clock on his wall makes his groan even more in frustration. “It’s eight on Saturday.” He rubs his face on the pillow.

He feels Tony wiggling closer, burrowing deeper and his temper ebbs away just a little. Next instance, Bucky lands heavily atop him, punching all of his breath out his asthmatic lungs.

“Ow!” Tony squawks.

Steve gasps, and Bucky giggles.

“I have asthma.” He wheezes, clutching at his chest later when Bucky has finally rolled over and Tony’s sit up against the headboard, head in his hands, grimacing.

Bucky swats him across his head. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Your last attack was when you were six.”

“And you sat on me!”

“Well, you were a dick.” Bucky shrugged, winking at Tony’s widened eyes, blindly tossing a rolled up socks from the floor over his shoulder and somehow managing to still hit Steve square in the face.

Steve seethes, a fight boiling in him readily but one look at Tony’s scared face, he mollifies immediately.

Tony doesn’t like fights. Or shouted arguments. Or any kind of arguments at all. It makes him feel small and helpless. _“Like I’m four again and mum and dad are yelling at each other.”_ Steve recalls.

He heaves a breath and exhales it in a sigh. “Alright. Buck. Start on the batter. Tony, you wash up first and I’ll do the eggs and the bacons.” Just like that, Saturday morning breakfast is set in motion. Bucky beams.

“You know, if you weren’t such a menace, I’d give you double stripes too.” Steve smirks indulgently around eggs. Bucky scowls darkly, eyeing Tony’s plate, and Tony cages it with one hand protectively, sticking a pancake soiled tongue at him.

“You love him, that’s why he gets more.” Bucky grunts grumpily, stabbing at his cakes in defeat.

Steve pauses his chewing, dropping the fork with a loud clatter. “I love you too, Buck,” he declares seriously, blue eyes big and sincere. “But you’re such a menace so, nope.” He winks, picking his fork back. Tony snorts, cupping at his nose and mouth, keeping orange juice from raining all over the kitchen table. Steve laughs at him.

Bucky aims the nozzle of whipped cream at Steve’s head, but that stopped before it could even start when someone knocked on the front door.

Each of them looked at one another. Bucky with one of his weird faces he’s been testing these days (which one this one was is beyond Steve’s knowledge or care), Tony with blinking brown eyes looking like a baby Bambi and Steve thinks he probably look torn between confusion and adoration. But no one made to stand up.

“I’ll get the door then.” Steve stood, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

Bucky rolled his kohl smudged eyes in return, “It _is_ your home Stevie.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I forgot about that between you owning a copy of the keyset and claiming the one sleeping bag we own as your own.” His voice fade into the living room and judging by Tony’s muffled snigger, he doesn’t have to see to know that Bucky is making some rude gesture at him.

“Who’s there?” He aims at the door when the bell rang again. This time more pressingly and something about that makes Steve think that the visitor is not in a good mood. He shot a longing glance at the broken keyhole before yanking the door open and slamming it right back in the face of the person standing on the other side.

Heart hammering in his chest, he swallowed and demanded. “What do you want?” Taking one big step back with one foot while the other stayed firmly planted where it was, he waves to get Bucky’s attention wordlessly and signals him to come forth.

Bucky’s narrows his eyes; his light blue eyes – the only bright thing visible from the distance - disappearing behind black kohl. He’s up and on the move the next instant, followed by a curious but confused looking Tony, lagging only by a fraction of second behind.

It’s a testament to how attuned Steve and Bucky are to one another that Bucky takes one look at Steve and his furrowed eyebrows flat out in understanding. Unlike Steve though, he pushed himself forth, crowding the door before yanking it open forcefully, rattling its frame making Steve pull Tony protectively behind him. From an outsider point of view, it may look ridiculous what with Tony towering over Steve by good two inches even though both of them are of similar width.

“What do you want fuckface?” He demanded in true James Barnes fashion; the notorious rebel punk he is in school. Steve felt Tony gasp a breath in, and he held on tighter to the bony wrist in his hand. At this point, he’s anticipating an angry outburst and Tony shutting them all out to face his demon alone. Which Steve disapproves. A lot.

“You’re not welcomed here Stone.” Steve interjects, when Tiberius Stone – that bastard- spots Tony frozen behind Steve and his inky black eyes widen in recognition. Stone’s eyes dart to Steve instead, distracted, just like how Steve wanted. He tucks Tony further behind him, fingers curling protectively, almost digging into Tony’s wrist bones.

However, when Stone speaks, his words are directed to Tony. As if neither Steve nor Bucky is worth his attention. “If these dumb-knuckles are your bodyguards, then I’m very disappointed in you, Tony.” Steve takes a step forward the same moment Tony yanks his wrist out of Steve’s hold and slams the door on his boyfriend’s face, barely pulling Bucky back before his shoulder gets decked in the action.

“Sorry.” He mumbles when Bucky and Steve stared at him, dumbstruck. Steve, still trying to process what just happened while Bucky looking highly impressed.

“Don’t apologize for standing up for yourself, baby boy.” Bucky drawls, patting Tony on his cheeks while the latter scowls at the pet name, looking more guilty than offended.

Steve closes his opened mouth, catching himself just the second Tiberius Stone yells from the other side; “You can’t keep running from me, Tony! Sooner or later, Tony! Sooner or later!”

Steve swallows at the threatening promises. Bucky shifts from one foot to another, uneasily. Tony – Tony simply looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there.

One whole minute passes without another threat before one of them dared to break the tension. And it predictably has to be Bucky. “Listen. Don’t listen to his poo poo talk okay. He’s nuts and besides, I know how to make voodoo dolls and I’d puncture his with so many needles, there won’t be surface left free of them.”

Steve stares. Tony stares right back. Then they looked at each other and they crack up.

“Poo poo talk?” Steve wheezes and Tony hiccups through another round of belly aching laughter. “Only you, Buck. Only you.”


	3. ? stevetony - freckles (headcanon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14+k start to a longer 'never will be finished' fic

Rogers has two freckles along the right side of his neck and one on his left cheek.

Tony noticed them way, way before Rogers would consider appropriate (if Rogers finds out Tony has been obsessing over him since the age of six, Tony has another thing coming) so, Tony doesn’t tell him that. Explicitly that is. For example, something along the line of; “I have wanted to lick your freckles since I was six.” To which, he imagines, Rogers will respond with; “Tony! What in the name of sweet Jesus?!” and Tony will then counter; “I was born observant and curious. I wanted to put my mouth on _almost_ everything, if that included your… freckles, then take it to the court of nature. Not my fault.”

Tony prefers to keep his eyes focused on the left cheek. It’s the least suspicious of them all. He could easily get away with it. Even when Rogers got his cowl on tight and dirt beneath his eyes, the small brown dot shows. He wonders if it is its job to remind others that Captain America is just another human beneath all the leather and immeasurable super strength.

When Tony stares, he stares unabashedly. To the point that it makes other people uncomfortable with it. But he only does that when he has a valid reason ready behind him. Like if Rogers ever asks him; “Why are you staring at my face?”, Tony will say “I think you’ve got something on it.” Then he’ll proceed to swipe the spot gently with his thumb. Sees that it doesn’t come off – of course wouldn’t come off – and say; “Oops. I thought it was dirt.” To which Rogers will say; “It’s a freckle, Tony.” Probably with a sigh. A defeated sigh. The one which he seems to reserve for only Tony. Like his mother reserves calling him ‘Antony _Edward_ Stark’ for when there were catastrophes.

But all these conversations, all these imagined confrontations, they’re all just that. Imaginations. Rows and rows of them, culminated between frustrations, longings and small breaks in between him working. Out of memories, of crystal clear images his brain likes to pull out for him when he’s just fresh out of a battle or he had just had an angry spat with the ever depressed and incredulously righteous Captain America. The Captain America whom he often wishes can pull off the fucking cowl and be just Steve for him. Like he does for the rest of the team. For everyone else except Tony.

Then again, that’s where the whole problem lies isn’t it? Lack of trust on top of the glaring lack of communications on top of;

“Moldy history.” Rhodey slurs. Right hand around a glass of bourbon as he slides down his seat on the sofa. Making the amber liquid slosh within the crystal wall as ice clinks softly creating music in the air. Tony himself likes his neat. Is well on his ninth glass of it and he’s feeling thoroughly sappy. To be honest, he doesn’t recall how exactly Rhodey came to be here. But he’d be damned if he’s going to spend a second thinking about that for all that matters, especially when Rhodey is here!

“That’s what you both got in there.” The man continues, oblivious to the spectacle of thought bursts and confusions overwhelming within Tony.

“Huh?” Tony makes an apt sound. He can barely remember where his nose is – above or below his mouth again? – and he knows Rhodey’s tripping down that lane as well. But it doesn’t matter now. Right now. Right this second. Nothing matters. Nothing can, nothing will and just-; “Urgh” He burps disgustingly.

Rhodey lets down an impressive one himself then they laugh until their stomach aches and Tony’s body threatens to spit up the last gulp into the wrong tube and choke him. “Okay, okay.” Rhodey says. Like he’s getting geared up for something. “Listen to me.”

“What?” Tony scrunches his nose. Swallows a few times to get rid of the stench of alcohol in his throat. Wrong tube, ew.

“You and the Captain, man.”

“Rogers.”

“Captain Rogers. Yes.”

“No Captain. Just Rogers.”

Rhodey pauses at that. Gives him a long glazed disappointed stare and shakes his head a little too enthusiastically before he stops and grunts, “No can do, man. Court-marshal right there.” Like that’s and actual law.

“The fu -hick- uck?” Tony hiccups, giggling immediately after. Rhodey pats his shoulder twice and removes the unfinished bourbon from Tony. When Tony protests, he simply pushes him back in his seat and says, in all serious tone he could muster; “You’ve had _enough_.”

Tony would be stupid to argue with that so he simply slumps until his chin touches his chest and pouts. “I’m adorable.” He lets out a tiny burp.

“No you’re not.” Rhodey contests, leaves his own glass on the side table and turns to face Tony again. “Now, I know he upsets you. But you gotta think this from his side, man. Not to mention, you’re not exactly an ice cream either.”

Tony giggles at that. “ An _Ice cream_?”

“Yeah, what I meant was that you’re an acquired taste.” Rhodey explains.

“You’re saying people don’t like me?” His lips wobble threateningly. Why is he feeling so sad all of a sudden?

“Tony, come on!” Rhodey slaps his right cheek sharp but not hard. “That’s not what I said. Don’t be maudlin now when I got a point to make.” When Tony stares at him accusingly, both hands plastered protectively against each of his cheek, Rhodey sighs.

“You’re not going to make this any easy are you?” It’s rhetorical, but Tony shakes his head nonetheless. After all, where’s the fun in rhetorical, right? Rhodey takes a long look at him to which Tony replies with a kissy face and Rhodey sighs, “All I’m tryn’ a’ say is that, you both gotta move on and get some words in between the two of you.” Then he burps and carries on, like that didn’t distract Tony at all. “It’s like dealing with a pair of screeching demon babies. Only worse, cause you got your backs on each other facing the wrong direction and you’re screeching at the fucking wall.”

“Wh- a-At?” Tony coughs, still wheezing distractedly at Rhodey’s disgusted face when he burped earlier.

“Noise pollution, Tones!”

The rest of the night was pretty much a blur, a painful blur that pokes at his banging head. He’d never been so glad to see Rhodey off, aiming a floppy kick at the war machine as Rhodey took off, his suffering groan still reverberating within the penthouse.

“Seems like Rhodey and you had a rough night.” Someone says behind him. Probably as quietly as possible but it sounds like a demon screeching and Tony’s surprised how his brain even came up with that term. Grimacing, he turns to regard the person and his eyebrows shot up in surprise to see one determined Sam Wilson leaning against the wall. Steve Rogers’ faithful new sidekick.

Tony saunters to the attached kitchen in his suite, pressing on the coffee machine and slips an espresso glass under the tap. He goes on to wipe his hand with the kitchen towel before tossing two slices of bread into the toaster and prodding it ‘on’ as well. “You want something?” He asks, at long last. All the while admiring the patience this man has for Tony, who’s still pretty much a stranger and an international asshole if Wilson had had paid any attention to the news and tabloids for the past two decades. Tony’s head maybe playing gigantic cymbals on repeat but he damn sure remembers his manners. “Coffee?” He offered his uninvited guest.

“No thanks.” Wilson says, but it apparently gives him the opening he has been waiting. “Cap and I were on a mission.” He begins, then waited. For what exactly, Tony’s not sure.

“Urm okay?” He murmurs, fluttering his fingers between peanut butter and jelly before deciding that he’d rather have his toasts bare.

Wilson sighs slowly and seems to have given up on warm ups. “Okay, here’s the thing. Steve’s been donning his world war 2 gear ever since SHIELD went down. The suit is a call for death by itself considering it’s the same as him walking naked into the battlefield. I _know_ it’s not your job but Nat said you helped her gear up and I was wondering if you could help this stone headed patriot with his too. Because I cannot get through his thick skull and he got two bullet wounds in his chest now. It’s a miracle they’re not straight through… Cause I don’t know…”

Tony considers him for a long while. Wilson looks utterly helpless and Tony was already committing by the ‘world war 2’ bit but he has to know. “Why isn’t _he_ asking?”

Wilson gives him a unperturbed look. “I just told you in many ways that he has great wall around his head-,”

“He’s stubborn, I get it.” Tony waves him off. “If that’s the case then, you’re at a dead end. What guarantees you have that he’ll even wear the new suit if and when -,”

Wilson interrupts, excitedly. His usual posture – arms across his chest and Tony really wonders what the hell with army people and defensive poses - breaking as he steps forward. “If you can make it look the same-,”

“What you’re planning on cheating him into it?” Tony looks affronted. Feels affronted. Wilson has another thing coming if he’s thinking he could degrade Stark techs to the point of slipping it in as if it’s a brussels sprout underneath mashed potato. Hell no, Stark techs are the main course. They’re the damn fucking turkey!

Wilson doesn’t look like he understands it, though.

“Look buddy, if the fossil has an issue wearing my design, you gotta find another way ‘round.” Tony shakes his head solemnly, continuing when Wilson looks like he’s about to argue, holding one finger up. “I made Natasha her suit because she wanted it. If you want one for yourself, I’m happy to help, but I’m not going to put my effort into something that will go to waste.” He levels Wilson with a meaningful look.

Wilson straightens up and says confidently, “He’ll wear it.” So unflinching in his manner that Tony’s impressed how well he’s trained to lie. Tony snorts. “Sure he will.”

“Look Stark.” Apparently Wilson _still_ isn’t done. “What?” Tony snaps, glaring. Predictably, Wilson doesn’t look affected even a bit. “Whatever issues you and him have, it’s not worth risking either of your life, ‘s what I’m saying. Think about it.”

Then he was off.

Damn Wilson. No wonder he runs the VA.

-

The next time he sees Wilson, he has a prototype ready for a new suit for the super soldier. But he doesn’t tell.

Well, at least not until Wilson waits for everyone to leave the Quinjet so he ends up being alone with Tony.

“Is this an ambush?” Tony quirks an eyebrow, standing up from the pilot seat.

Wilson snorts, leaning against the Quinjet exist with his trademark pose (technically it’s Rogers’ before Wilson’s but since Tony is ignoring anything Rogers…) “Trust me Stark, you wouldn’t know an ambush when I give you one.”

Tony rolls his eyes, stopping by on of the passengers’ seat to collect someone’s left out clothing piece. “I swear you guys are worse than children.” He grumbles, then tosses the article at Wilson. “I only have a prototype ready for now.”

Wilson catches the clothing with a trained precision. “Can I see?”

“You better.” Tony mutters, brushing past him, leading the way knowing that Wilson will follow.

“I added the bullet proof padding like you asked.” Tony watches from afar as Wilson examines the suit, JARVIS working silently to bring attention to the said property on a holographic model of it.

Wilson nods. “But that’s not all.” He says and Tony huffs. “Of course not. What do you take me for? Wallmart? I’m Karl Lagerfeld at best.”

“I’m just gonna ignore that.” Wilson hums while Tony continues. “I tinkered with the leather, found a way to thread some Vibranium into it-,”

Wilson gives a low impressed whistle which Tony ignores.

“- so he’ll pretty much be a walking shield himself. Then I added some gears around those gloves, by the way, I’m changing the colour combo, it’s a discount I’m throwing in and no, you cannot say no to that-,”

“I like the new colour.” Wilson shrugs easily which eases some of the tension in Tony’s shoulder. He was expecting at least an argument there.

“Good.”

Wilson turns to him then, the hologram of the suit spinning lazily behind him, giving him a glow over glow. “Anything else?”

“Wow. Aren’t you demanding.” Tony sneers, dragging a stool and sinking onto it.

Wilson chuckles, regaining his stupid stance and he says then with all seriousness. “Thank you, Stark.”

-

Convincing a nonagenarian with a stick up his ass is apparently a hideous task even for the said nonagenarian’s trusted sidekick.

Tony got the suit ready in 72 hours from when Wilson gave a solid yes. It was a measly task. Tony didn’t even partake as about 66% of the final product, multitasking with fixing new arrowhead for a Hawkeye as requested (requested may be a very vague term here) by SHIELD and new designs for a personal Quinjet (SHIELD can go fuck it if they stole the name on top of effort Tony had put in on their requested (again, request is a very mild term here) for. Bunch of asshats.)

Then again, Tony knew that the real problem of the ‘Wilson task’ is not the suit itself but the sheer pig-headedness of the person who it’s designed for.

He’d just finished a record breaking 80 hour workshop marathon to JARVIS’s patent disapproval when he walks into a heated argument between the Falcon and Captain America. He’s so taken aback by the sight that he’d stopped in his track, standing frozen at the top of the stairs leading from his workshop into the kitchen.

He must be pretty easy to ignore (Tony would like to think he’s a giant present in a room at all time, thank you very much) which is very bruising to his ego or maybe he’d suddenly developed a power to be invisible, which would be uber cool, by the way.

“Who says uber anymore?”

He jostles embarrassingly in his stance, realising for the first time that he’s not the only one bearing witness to this current wonder of the world.

“Jesus. Warn a guy will you?” He fixes a death glare at the spy.

Romanov stars bluntly at him, taking a sip of whatever the fuck she got in her mug (and yes, Tony has to begrudgingly dub it as _her_ mug because she hid every other mugs in the tower once, when Tony refused to give in to that).

“What’s going on?” He jerks his chin in the direction of the super soldier and his robin.

The red head gives a careless shrug, pulling her bent knees closer to her chest, her bosom calling out for Tony’s attention, but he’s smarter than that. Even in sleep-deprived state. “Steve’s being dramatic.”

“Isn’t he always dramatic?” Tony sighs, his muscles protesting against any active efforts and standing seems to be one of them. He shoves lightly at Romanov and awkwardly perches his butt on the window ledge. He’s one second from toppling forward when he gets tugged back hard, jerking him into a more stable position on the ledge. He sinks in without a protest, body giving out under his tired brain.

“He is.” Romanov makes a humming sound in agreement but doesn’t say anything else.

Tony watches the argument going on with bleary eyes and blurrier brain. Sometimes, he registers words like, _safety, new suit, dead_ , then he thinks he heard _Stark_ but thinks again until he hears it again.

“Wait.” He perks up. “Is this about the suit?”

“Sometimes I give you too much credit.” Romanov says as a manner of answering and Tony thinks, ‘Fuck you’ but knows better than to say it aloud.

He lets the growing voice unclog the sleep laden pipes in his head before hopping off the ledge with a decisive strut.

The closer he gets, the more words he hears and by the time the coffee machine is whirring, he’s made his presence well known and the voices have hushed down. To Tony’s immense amusement, Rogers makes incredulous stinky eyes when provoked. Hissing even. But Wilson is one brave dude to hold against all that and even to the point of stepping forward and yanking back the Captain America by his thick elbow and having the final say. Which, unfortunately, Tony couldn’t hear. Damn, he wishes he’d thought of super-hearing aids sooner. He got Clint’s but they’re in the drawer and why the heck would Tony wear it when his hearing is good anyway. Oh, but he really wants to know what Wilson said to that knuckle-head.

“Is my prophecy coming true?” Tony says as a manner of greeting when Wilson pulls a chair opposite him and plops down.

Wilson snorts humourlessly. “He’s a real dick when he wants to be.” He shakes his head to which Tony feigns a dramatic gasp. As far as dramatic goes without having to stifle the yawn that sneaks into it.

“Long hours.” He waves it off, when Wilson quirks an eyebrow. “I thought he’s always a dick.”

“Well, to you maybe.” Wilson picks at the coaster and Tony wants to slap his hand away from vandalizing, but he settles for glaring steadily at it.

“Am I supposed to feel honoured at getting Captain America to be a dick?” He sneers.

Wilson stills in his task of destroying other’s property and Tony shifts his gaze from the table to the guy. “What?” He asks.

“You’re a bigger dick to him, Stark.” Wilson says, eyes narrowed as he’s having a difficult time reading Tony.

Tony thinks back to all those times he’d ever made effort to be on Rogers good side and concedes. “In my defence, he’s always been a dick to me so its in my nature to defend myself by being a bigger dick.” He nods meaningfully at his coffee mug and taking three large gulps of it.

“If you could change that…” Wilson begins and Tony’s immediately affronted.

“I’m not taking the first step here. Ask you stone headed buddy to do that. He’s the Captain America after all. Isn’t goodness and being the bigger man is in his very bone?” He spits out the last two words. He’s already made a suit for him, that’s enough damage to his lack of morality in itself.

Wilson doesn’t say anything to that but his face is pinched enough to look like he’s considering Tony’s point, so Tony leaves him to that.

When Wilson stands up to leave, he looks at Tony one last time and shakes his head, “Sometimes I really wish I have the powers to pull you two into a couple therapy.” And he’s gone too soon before Tony has he chance to recover from his shock and give a snarky retort.

-

It’s all blurry and heavy in his head when JARVIS quips quietly announcing, “Sir, you have Captain Rogers and Mr. ‘Stop-calling-me-Mr. Wilson-Jarvis’ heading towards you in 5”

Tony blinks stupidly, “Mr- What?” then hears Wilson yelling “Stop calling me that!” at the ceiling and he’s so exhausted at this point to even snap at people for thinking JARVIS lives in the ceiling that he simply sighs and swipe the green to right on the call button Jarvis pulled up on the screen.

“What did you do to JARVIS?” he demands when Wilson and Captain gloom-face is allowed in.

Wilson gives him an exaggerated eye roll, pulling a stool to sit down as if he’s completely at home, which is a little disturbing for Tony but again, it’s been a long, long day.

“I convinced him.” Wilson nods at his main man, pulling in his usual ‘arms across my chest, flexing like a bicep monster’ pose. Tony follows the gesture, taking in the way Rogers look so uncomfortable, a complete contrast to Wilson, standing in Tony’s workshop. “JARVIS will show you to it.” He says, eyes never leaving Rogers. Then he turns to Wilson in time to receive a betrayed look.

“I’d give you credit for getting on the bad side of JARVIS.” He sing songs, swirling in his stool back to face the monitor. “Not many can get there. You should be proud.” He throws over his shoulder, fingers already working on the board. Just another 40hours and _this_ project will be complete.

He’s left in silence for a long stretch of time, nagging in the back of his head with some urgency he can’t really put a finger on. “JARVIS.” He calls, voice far gone as he thinks through all the equations he had considered to carry forth.

“Sir?” The AI answers in the similar quiet tone.

“What am I missing?”

“Beats me, sir.” JARVIS quips after a thoughtful second.

Then it’s silence again and it’s deafening. Until-

“Stark!” Comes a booming call, followed by a few grunts and a startled yelp and suddenly Tony knows.

He looks down at his bare feet, flexing his toes as a sigh works out of his chest and he addresses JARVIS in an obvious tone. “It’s noise, J. That was _what_ I was missing.” He doesn’t stop to register the AI’s reply, simply dragging his feet to where the distress comes from.

He walks into a half formed ‘STARK!’ spilling out of Wilson’s wide open mouth and he spots the source of distress at once. In the form of Captain Buff hunched over and hopping as he hisses and splutters to ‘no-not Stark, Sam’.

“What’s going on?”

“Get out!” Rogers orders the same moment Wilson sighs, “He got stuck.” In an exasperated demeanour. Then gives Captain America the filthy eyes only his trusted side kick can.

“No can do. This is my property.” Tony reminds Rogers with a bite. Then to Wilson, a tired sigh. “Where and how. Lay it on me.”

As Wilson dives into his short tale of Captain America and his tight pants, Tony’s braincells make a simple deduction between Rogers’ posture and pain and “Oh.”

He takes a step forward and Rogers stiffens, his back still facing them in petulance and Tony really wants to bang something against his big blonde head. “Wilson, if you’ll give us a moment.” He mutters, not taking his eyes off the Captain and, “Rogers, you have the choice of me or DUM-E and personally I’ll gladly set DUM-E on you-,”

“Sam, out.” Roger’s decides, straightening his back, not quietly and his voice is tight but he’s resolved it seems.

Then it’s just Tony with his half-melted brain and hyper jerky fingers with Captain ‘I’m not gonna look at you helping me out of this suit’ ‘Murica with heavy silence that are nagging Tony to the bone while he deliberately avoids looking up, focusing singularly on extracting the zipper of Rogers’ pants in the least painful and most damage-controlled way possible.

“Okay.” He steps back once done. Still keeping his eyes on everywhere except on the person and he mumbles a quick. “Now I know what to fix there.” And he leaves, storming past Wilson who’s been waiting with his back towards them several furniture away with a stricken. “Done.” And a second thought. “You owe me a year worth of pizza for this.” Over his shoulder.

Several minutes later, when Wilson and his Captain take their leave, Tony has comfortably returned to his project centred mind and he doesn’t even bat an eye when Rogers mutters a clipped ‘Thank you.’ At him. Ah, the ever polite son of ‘Murica, Tony muses privately.

-

Mission 70-who the fuck knows, sees Captain America in his new, improvised suit.

‘Just when we thought Captain America couldn’t look any more scrumptious.’ One article reads.

Then, another: ‘Leather never fails’ and another: ‘America’s ass never looked better.’ Which, if Tony’s forced to admit, will be his personal favourite.

“Congratulations, sir.” JARVIS quips, to which Tony quirks a curious eyebrow. “Thank you, J.” He says. “Though I must ask, for what?”

The helmet comes off easily, as he lets DUM-E and U fiddle with the rest of his armour with a controlled patience. His right shoulder is aching at its socket, and he remembers in far memory, JARVIS reading a diagnosis of a strained joint. He has to credit Dr Doom for always trying with his bots. And this lot proved to be especially notorious, aiming for all of their specific weak points which proves that their arch enemy is diligently doing his homework at wherever the fuck his quarters is. Bless his demolishing soul.

“For your success of the Captain’s, and I quote ‘sass pants with the first S slashed off of sass’, sir. JARVIS replies with a shameless smug tone he lets creep into his flat AI tone.

“Oh, JARVIS.” Tony chirps with a dramatic flair, “It’s _our_ success, sweetheart. You and me both, buddy.” Then because he _is_ indeed pleased, he adds, “There’s no me without you, darling.” Pursing his lips into an exaggerated kissy pout with closed eyes at the air.

“Urm, Stark?”

Oh, there goes his dignity.

“Captain?” He asks, clearing his voice. His ears burning hot in shame and he makes a private promise to mute JARVIS after asking his to read the weather prediction for July later.

When Rogers struggles, switching weight from one foot to another with a troubled look, Tony rolls his eyes and shakes off the last of his armour’s metal, patting U on the head as he steps off the platform and into his penthouse. Rogers’ still stuck by the elevator, frowning darkly at the floor with what Tony can now see, his uniform in his hand. “Is there something wrong with the suit?” Tony walks up to him, one hand extended expectantly.

Tony reaches him way before words reaches Rogers. “What is it?” He sighs, snatching the suit and letting the folds fall down before him. He spots a few tears on the top and a long slit at the groin area, which is peculiar considering he didn’t notice anyone sticking anything remotely sharp in Captain America’s crotch area, and believe it, Tony would know, considering all those time- well, let’s not bother with that now, shall we. “Where did this come from?” He looks up at Rogers, frowning.

At some point during Tony’s inspection, Rogers seems to have adopted a new colour for his skin; pink. Which is very… Interesting. “It- urm. I-,” Rogers stammers, until Tony gives him a flat look and he huffs a breath looking defiantly over Tony’s right shoulder. “It’s tight at the groin area.”

Oh.

“Well, I can adjust that.” Tony shrugs, stepping forward and, “JARVIS, the workshop please,” with an index bent in Rogers’ direction, gesturing him to follow. He spends the next five seconds in the elevator in silence with Rogers, turning the suit inquisitively, making sure he’s not missing any other damages. It’s really unnecessary, considering all he has to do is ask JARVIS to copy the entire suit and put it on the board so he can fix around its holographic image, but Rogers doesn’t know that and Tony isn’t really a big fan of striking conversation with Captain Stiff-Ass so, there’s that.

When the elevator opens, he strides out, dumping the suit on the board and taking a seat on his usual stool. “I need your measurement.” He says. “This one was clearly missing the precision in some area, considering I asked JARVIS to scan you roughly, but now that I have you at my disposal, you may as well give some tiny cooperation – nothing big like the peace truce- just, extend and flex where needed, and JARVIS will take your measurements.” He does one quick swirl in the chair, tapping on the monitor to copy the suit in holographic form and when the chair comes to a stop in front of Rogers, JARVIS is already piping soft instructions to the wide eyed American eye candy. It’s surreal, watching Rogers obeying commands, albeit the rather polite ones, but still-

Tony almost gets lost in it, until the glaring blue of the holographic suit to his left distracts him enough to turn around and reset his priorities accordingly. The suit. Not the man.

It’s over as quick as he came. In a matter of seconds, even before Tony could tap on the first red light on the suit signing the damages, Rogers is already clearing his throat, demanding his attention.

“I’m done, I think.” He says flatly. The same monotonous, emotionless, ‘I don’t know you, you don’t know me and given a chance, I wouldn’t want to work with you’ tone which makes Tony’s jaw jump.

“Er, thanks Stark.” He mutters as an after thought and Tony is so done with this man, he doesn’t even want to turn and acknowledge him. 

And apparently, Rogers’ isn’t waiting either, judging from the disappearing footsteps that follows next and Tony’s head suddenly feels so heavy. “Tell me why am I doing this again, J.” He mumbles and JARVIS, the ever loving creation of his, stays as quiet as the air.

10 heavy seconds later, because he planned it and because he craves something light to lift his mood up, he asks louder, “Hey, JARVIS? Can you tell me how the weather will be from 1st of July till the 31st?”

“I cannot think of a single reason why you would require such information, sir. But since you asked, I feel obligated to update you that the first of July sees a 63 percent chances of sunny summer wit-,”

“Mute.” Tony says with a self-satisfactory smirk. Hopping off the chair with a spring and picking up the wrench. He’s in the mood to wreck some engines today. Fuck Captain America and his Ass-Pants.

-

The next time Tony comes out from his workshop, it’s with his collar gripped tightly in Pepper’s delicate fist. Her manicured nails brushing threateningly against his chest as she drags Tony up to the kitchen with hushed threats of, “If you’re not going to feed yourself with some real food, I’m going to insist JARVIS to stop storing your pantry in the workshop and you can bet I’ll get DUM-E to stop making your green juice and if he doesn’t I’ll show him the new recipe with grease in them.”

“Ow, ow. Pepper!” He yelps as he stumbles out the elevator, tripping and almost falling when he registers with horror that they may not be the only occupant of that common space. Shit.

Darling Pepper allows him a short second to find his balance again on two feet, straightening up like all those times he’d nailed while stumbling out of the clubs past 3am, sufficiently stoned out of his head. All hail, experiences. Good or bad. Both of them.

“Good evening, Captain. Sam.” He hears Pepper greeting (judging by her tone, she hasn’t been expecting spectators either), her fist around his band shirt loosening but not releasing. Instead, she subtly brings it Tony’s stiff elbows and loop around, giving him a sharp tug forward. Tony follows, by pure muscle memories. Follows Pepper blindly, noting that he’s in the company of a surprised Captain America and an amused Sam Wilson.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He preens, out of habit. “Fancy some dinner?”

Internally, he goes: what the fuck, Anthony. Externally, he runs his motor oil stained fingers through his three days old hair.

“You look disgusting, Stark.” Wilson comments helpfully, going back to stirring whatever he had on the stove, his shock either wearing off quickly or he’s a master at pretending like he’s used to when he’s not. Whichever it was, it wasn’t something he shared with Rogers.

“Good evening, Ms Potts. Tony.” The said man speaks carefully.

Pepper, to Tony’s delight, completely ignores the Captain, focusing on Wilson, now that she has Tony where she wants. On a kitchen stool apparently.

“What’re you making, Sam?” She makes her way to the single pot on the stove, peering in curiously and sniffing. Or inhaling, Tony amends. Sniffing seems to not suit Pepper decadence.

“Hey, Pep.” Sam kisses her cheek, making Tony frown because hello? Since when? Then he murmurs something too soft for Tony to catch but Pepper seems to catch it as she hums and ooh’s in delights at whatever that pleased her, all the while opening the top cupboard and setting on making instant soup for Tony.

It’s the only thing she knows how to make. Every time she has to drag Tony’s oblivious ass out of his workaholic head and for someone who screams all about ‘real food’ when she serves Tony with instant soup of variants, they’re the most hilarious thing in the world for Tony’s exhausted brain.

Except, she’s not pulling out any soup packets now, but waiting, paused at two bowls. Wasting time chatting with Wilson with a tad bit closer distance than Tony would approve and he feels incredibly hurt for no reasons. It’s not like they’re in relationship any longer, it’s been two years after all but, nobody said that Tony can deal healthily with someone else stealing Pepper’s attention off of him.

“I’m dying of hunger here, Pep.” He acts faint at the dinner table, dropping his forehead to hit the table with a resounding thud and, “Ow.”

Something lands softly on his head and he rolls it to see the end of a granola bar packet, grazing at the tip of his nose, tickling. He makes an unpleasant sound before taking it and rolling it in his palm suspiciously because something doesn’t add up. Pepper banned Tony from having another granola bar. In fact, that was how this whole man-handling came forth. So this must not have been from Pepper. Unless…

Yeah, nope. Judging by the way Wilson is still engrossed in his stupid cooking talk with Pepper, it’s not him either, which leaves. Huh.

“I’m banned from this.” He tosses back the granola from where it came from. Crinkling his nose in distaste when Rogers catches it mid air like it’s nothing. Stupid super soldiers with their stupid reflexes.

Rogers shrug, ripping open the packet and taking a big bite. His suitably big mug spinning pretty steam that brushes his shaved chin and he says, “I thought you were dying in hunger.”

Tony thinks about explaining, then he realizes that that would lead into a conversation and that he doesn’t particularly like Steven Grant Rogers so, he may as well save himself so -, “Pepper! Food!.” He huffs, kicking his feet out, robbing himself off that dignity he tried so hard to preserve earlier, all for his dislike of one Captain. Did someone say priorities?

“Geez, Stark.” Wilson speaks, giving one final stir to the pot before tapping the ladle out and dropping it into the sink. “And here I thought you were 42.”

Tony goes, “Hey!” But Pepper’s laughter chimes like lovely bells and he drops his protest, distracted.

“Oh no. Not the age.” She squeezes Wilson’s biceps. BICEPS! “This smells really good, Sam. Thank you.” And she drops another kiss high on Wilson’s cheekbone and suddenly it clicks in Tony’s brains.

Oh shit snap.

“No.” He says, the moment the bowl hits the coaster in front of him. Pepper thrusts a soup spoon into his hand and he accepts begrudgingly, tugging on her wrist with another hand. “You can’t do this to me, Pep. Nooooo.”

Pepper rolls her eyes and sits beside him. Taking a sip from her own bowl and humming in delight. She gives him a dirty glance before beaming at Wilson. “This is perfect, Sam. You really should join Master Chef, not kidding.”

Tony aims a kick at her shin, stupidly forgetting that she’s wearing heels when she digs them on his feet in response. “OW! You devil woman!” he yowls. “I won’t allow you to flirt with Wilson!” He crosses his arms petulantly over his chest.

He hears Wilson cough softly in the background as he watches red splotches appearing over Pepper’s perfectly powdered face. It’s terrifying how her posture shifts from loose and relaxed to stiff and defensive and the glare she directs him when she finally turns is bone—chilling.

Rogers is the one to make a grab of her when she aims a banana at Tony, being seated the closest to them. Then it’s Wilson rushing to hold onto Tony as he stands frozen, Pepper spitting at him venomously, “You dick! You’re an absolute horrible dick, Tony. I fucking hate you.”

It’s a bit dramatic. As a matter of fact, too dramatic even for Tony’s imagination. Which is why that was not what actually happened. Instead. “I’m assigning you with paperwork for the next two months.” Pepper announces, a forceful smile stretched across her face and she leaves her unfinished soup, strutting towards Wilson with purpose and kissing smack on his unexpected lips. Then she turns with devilish smirk at Tony and says as she walks past him, heels clacking with every step, “I can flirt with whomever I want, Mr Stark.” And she’s out.

“Damn.” Wilson is the first one to speak. Tony schools a renewed glare for him. “Don’t you dare-,” He begins, the same time Wilson says, “I want her.”

Once upon time, it was Tony’s dialogue. It’s somehow… riveting, hearing it from someone other than him and even more odd to hear it directed towards Pepper. Tony has just never- Huh. Well-

“JARVIS is not giving you her number.” He announces firmly. Leaving his soup and marching towards the elevator.

He returns to the basement only to find himself locked out. Pepper. So he tries calling her, to no avail. Woman is mad.

Shit. Fuck.

“JARVIS.” He whines in assured privacy, getting back on the lift.

His AI remains smartly silent as the elevator pings open at his penthouse and he’s steps out and onto his bed with a groan.

-

The next time Tony comes across either the Captain or his sidekick, it’s Sunday and the both of them are just stepping out of the elevator when Tony takes the first sip of his freshly brewed coffee. He rolls his eyes and turns away, leaving his back to them. It’s too early on the clock for him to deal with these two. Regardless that there’s Bruce and Romanov watching some weird show on TV and regardless it’s 12.44 in the afternoon.

He hears the chatter begin with loud greetings, ‘Hey!’ ‘Whatsup’ and Bruce’s timid ‘How was church’.

Wait. How was _church?_

 _God,_ He thinks. Then stops, because what even?

It takes about half and hour for Wilson to jog up to him. Just when he was leaving. Schmuck.

“No.” He says automatically.

Wilson pants, “I haven’t even asked-,”

“I’m not giving you Pepper’s number.” He holds up an index, finishing the last sip of black goodness and slamming the mug into the sink. “Nope, nada.” He sings, giving it a quick rinse before toppling the mug over the drying rack and wiping his hand dry on the dry cloth.

Wilson rolls his eyes, placing himself strategically in the only exit way from the sink to Tony’s freedom and for once, he doesn’t put on his stupid army pose. “I’m gonna ask about the suit.” He says. “Sides, Pepper and I already went on our first date.”

His smugness throw Tony off-track into a loud “What!?” Which disastrously attracts a bunch of unwanted attention so he repeats a hissed “What.” And jabs at Wilson’s chest. “Fuck off from Pepper.” He threatens.

“Or what?” Wilson stands square, and there it is. That stupid army pose of his.

He goes with a lousy, “Or I’m kicking you out of this place. From Avengers.” He adds overtly.

Wilson’s unmoved, snorting at his face as he pushes down Tony’s finger politely. “You and I both know you’re not capable of that, Stark. Besides it’s not your call to kick me off the team.”

Which, technically it’s true, but he’s so wrong about the kicking out thing. “Yeah, but I can so get you and every one else out of here cause this is my fucking tower, your ingrates.”

Wilson sighs, slumping against the counter behind him and opening the exit for Tony to leave. It’s an option, Tony sees. He can either walkout or stay to hear what Wilson has to say with all that meaningful stare he’s giving him. He waits.

“I’m really interested in Pepper. I’m not going to mess this up, Stark.” He spells it out. Word by word as if Tony is a child but that’s not what this is about and Tony knows that. Because he’s seen his enough shares of romantic comedies on those long, long lonely nights and he knows how the guys approach their love interests’ dads. And for Wilson to put him on that pedestal is both gratifying and appalling.

“I’ll blast you.” He swears. Leaving the _‘if you ever dare to graze her skin’._ Which doesn’t go unnoticed by Wilson’s sharp mind and it’s an agreement right there. Which Tony is chiding himself for making but something about Wilson screams trust and he’s helpless against the force of it. Also, Pepper’s life is Pepper’s life. Not Tony’s, and she deserves a good man. Wilson, albeit not Tony’s choice, is no other than the society’s approved good man. So-,

“Fine.” He nods, taking the step out but not before he lays a tight punch to Wilson solar plexus, stealing his breath for pure satisfaction.

He knows he evaded the other question. Knows that that’s why Wilson yells a chocked out ‘Stark!’ after him. But he’s not so giving. If Rogers wants his pants back, he can stop coddling with Romanov and ask Tony himself.

Wilson seems to be adamant on getting on Tony’s good side apparently, because less than ten minutes after, he’s knocking on the glass door with Rogers on tow as JARVIS announces with an irritated “Mr. ‘Stop-calling-me-Mr. Wilson-Jarvis’ and Captain Rogers are asking for permission to enter, sir.” One day, Tony thinks. One day, he’ll program eye roll to go with that tone of JARVIS.

“Whatever did he do to you?” He mumbles vaguely as he swipes green on the monitor, allowing his guest in.

He hears JARVIS displeased hum in the background as he sees Wilson smooching at the ceiling which automatically calls for Tony’s startled face. Rogers on the other hand seems used to it, barely batting an eye as he marches towards Tony opening his mouth, but Tony holds up a finger to silence him and points at the fixed pair of suit clumped on the hologram board. “Try them on.” He says. “Tell me how they fit.”

Then to Wilson, “What the fuck are you doing, Wilson?” Which Wilson smiles at secretively with a glint in his eyes and he whispers loudly, “Oh, Stark. Wouldn’t you like to know.” He turns back to ceiling and winks, “It’s between JARVIS baby and me only.”

Tony’s baffled by so many things at once, it feels like Chitauri attack on 2012 all over again. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Did you just call JARVIS, baby?” He demands, skipping over the exhaustedly repeated ‘JARVIS doesn’t live in the ceiling you buffon’. “ _My_ JARVIS?”

“Oh, get a chill pill, Stark.” Wilson swirls in his chair and Tony’s so done.

“No.” He throws the pencil at Wilson’s direction. “Stop stealing all my lines.”

First it was, ‘I want that’ and now’ take a chill pill’. Those are Tony Stark’s stamped lines, hello!?

Wilson catches the pencil smoothly and perhaps it’s not the super serum. Perhaps Tony has to work on his reflexes.

“You’re okay with Pepper and I, right?” Wilson quips once Tony’s back to sketching on paper - old-school just to keep in touch with his manual skills - with a new pencil, courtesy of DUM-E.

Tony pauses but doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even bother to answer because he doesn’t want to. Wilson gets the message after five seconds of silence, accepts it with a loud sigh then lets out a low whistle out of nowhere.

Tony’s just about to admonish him, when he sees what has caught Wilson’s interest and suddenly, the room feels warmer, which is impossible, considering JARVIS works the temperature and the system can’t be down because, again, JARVIS will tell, so-

So-

“Urm. It fits alright.” Rogers says, looking from Wilson with a wide grin to Tony where the grin automatically disappears, and that hurts. Ouch.

“Good.” Tony says, taking another pencil DUM-E’s pressing at him because he seems to have dropped the other apparently. “Any need for adjustments?” He asks, clearing his throat because that came out unintentionally hoarse and now Wilson’s looking at him with a newfound interest. Shit.

Rogers pats at the sleeves, pulls at the belt and overall, just tries to see himself from top to bottom from where he’s standing and Tony wishes, way, way back in his head, where dirty, dirty thoughts exists, he wishes Rogers would turn around.

He doesn’t.

“I believe no.” He announces instead, offering a small smile in Tony’s direction and Tony has to blink twice because, did Steven Grant Rogers just smiled at him? At Tony Stark? The Captain America. The prude pants.

Huh.

“Well… Alright, then.” Tony stammers, catching his hip by the edge of DUM-E nearby claw and it takes everything in him to not swear aloud. Not when Wilson got a knowing smirk and he’s lost enough dignity in front of this pair already as it is. “You can take that with you. Please close the door when you leave. JARVIS, please pull out the other project.” He rambles, gratefully pushing all his attention to focus on pretending as if he’s absorbed with one of those random projects JARVIS pulled out on the monitor for him. It’s the 2011 abandoned giant arc reactor project but thank you, JARVIS, nonetheless.

He doesn’t see them leave. Stubbornly staying with his back against them, ears ringing, blocking every other sound except for the anticipated swoosh of the glass door closing, and Tony lets out a large breath, slumping down on his stool, head spinning.

Fuck Rogers and his scientifically enhanced body. On second thought, fuck Tony for failing in priorities because if anyone’s to ask JARVIS, the new suit is labelled ‘Project Captain’s Ass Pants’ for a blatant reason. Captain America’s Ass.

-

After the next mission, Rogers doesn’t seek him out.

The articles are flooding again. Close shots of Rogers private areas and if Tony pressed save on some discreetly, JARVIS is not to tell. But there’s no Rogers at his door asking to mend damages, which is good. Supposed to be good, because that means Tony’s work is a masterpiece, right? Right.

“JARVIS.” He calls curiously, one day. The blue glow of hologram vanishes as he taps at the monitor, calling for a suggested 20 minutes break which are supposed to increase productivity. Whatever, never tried, in mood to try science, so here Tony is, volunteering himself for his own amusement. (In truth, his thumb is aching from accidentally hitting it with the hammer but Tony’s in denial so, let’s just leave that there.)

“Sir?”

“What did Wilson do to you?” It’s a long time coming. Been sitting in his head for so long, throbbing dully like most of his bruises except this one doesn’t disappear so Tony may as well just address it.

He hears a stifled hum of machinery around him, blinking in realisation that it may be JARVIS sighing. Cool, he thinks. He’s digging all the humane quality his AI is picking. Cool.

“He asked me to google Mr Wilson without the safe search on then ordered me to click on a pornographic site and asked me to save it to my personal database to pop up every time I try to call him by his name, sir.”

Tony takes a beat of silence to rerun all of that and reprocess everything because, “What?!”

JARVIS registers his question as rhetorical, smartly opting out of repeating and instead, “It’s deleted now, sir. But nobody said I couldn’t hold a grudge.” The AI adds softly, as if unsure and Tony hums approvingly. “Oh. You really should. Hold all the grudge you want, J. Even add some of mine along with yours.”

If JARVIS can laugh, Tony hears it in form of a whirring hum that sounds remarkably like preening. Then a tiny clearing of throat, which Tony had just added a few days ago into JARVIS’s program, and the AI announces, “The bird devil is asking to enter, sir”

Tony barks out a laugh, distractedly chuckling a ‘come in’ to which Wilson walks in bringing with him delicious pepperoni smell. Oh, and cheese!

“Pizza!” Tony can help saying aloud.

Wilson clears the holographic board to place two boxes atop laughing, “Two large pies from Joe’s,” when U pokes him at the side warningly. “Not there bird devil.” Tony grins, hopping off his seat and leading the way to the workshop’s pantry as Wilson asks, affronted. “I bring you pizza and you call be bird devil?”

He helps himself to the largest slice with an appreciative hum and a ‘thank you’ pat over Wilson’s shoulder, fumbling until he finds two clean mugs and fill them up with water. The cheese is still oozy, burning the tip of Tony’s tongue as he hisses but never stops from inhaling his bite, hopping on his feet where the task gets hard and when he finally pulls a chair for himself opposite Wilson’s he answers the question. “It’s JARVIS who came up with that. He told me what you did, which I was meaning to hit you for but you saved yourself in time.”

“Oh, thank god for small mercies.” Wilson smirks around his small bites, hissing profusely when the cheese burns. It’s funny, Tony thinks. Because the last time someone brought him pizza, they ripped his arc reactor out.

“So, I was talking with Pepper.” Wilson starts and Tony snorts, well arc-react slash Pepper Potts, some connection somewhere there, because damn him if he’s going to pretend like that doesn’t hurt. But Wilson carries on, eyeing Tony like he knows what’s going on in that billion dollar brain. Maybe he does, heck, he wouldn’t put one past a VA therapist-

“I asked why you hate Steve, you see-,”

“What?”

“- And here’s the thing. She told me this story about you. More like your childhood and she warned me to not tell you, but I’m trying to get on your good side right, so fuck Pepper, she’s already mad at you so, urm- Is it true?” He swallows while Tony’s mouth hangs open in betrayal. “Did you actually used to like Captain America?”

Knowing Pepper, she wouldn’t have put it as ‘like’, most likely painting a dramatic picture of baby-crush gone bad, which means, Wilson is actually being mild on purpose here. And that purpose is to get on Tony’s good side. Which is- Why?

“Did you tell Rogers?” Is the one thing he has to know.

Wilson shakes his head, “Of course, no, man. I told you. I’m aiming for your good side.”

Relaxing immediately, Tony huffs a sigh and rolls his eyes, taking another big bite and taking his time to chew thoughtfully. “Why you’re asking?” He asks after because again? What is this? Pulling a blackmail of ‘let me get on your good side because I know your dirty secret? Is that it?

Suddenly the pizza doesn’t even taste, and he drops it back in the box. Swallowing the rest of his bite because Jarvis taught him that spitting is rude. “What do you want, Wilson?”

The shift in the mood is loud enough to make Wilson put down his slice too, although, judging by the way he’s eyeing his unfinished slice, he’s regretting doing so. “Look, man. I don’t know what runs in that brain of yours but whatever it is, stop it and trust me when I say that I only want to be your friend.”

“Why?”

“Because Pepper is important to me and you’re important to Pepper so when I have to listen to Pepper spend 3/4th of our conversations worrying about you, somehow that shit hops on you and walla! Suddenly you’re important to me too, you know?” Wilson explains in one breath, glancing longingly at the pizza and Tony can’t help the bubble of laughter that spills out of him. Oh, of all the ridiculous shit on earth.

“You don’t have to.” He says, picking up his slice back, hoping it’s permissible enough for Wilson to do so.

Which the man does, “Thank you. But it’s not something I can help with, so heads up, I’m going to be dropping in every 48 hours of your self-assigned confinement to bring you food.” He takes a small bite, eyes trained on Tony warningly as he adds. “Yes, Pepper’s still mad at you.”

Half an hour and one and half large pies later, Tony’s sprawled on the sofa, head resting on a box of metal scraps he keeps telling himself, he’ll find use one day and then there’s Wilson with a hand against his distended belly with a painful expression on his face arguing with JARVIS.

It’s entertaining to watch, each time Wilson looks up at the ceiling and hearing JARVIS quip back nasty retorts just to rile him up and Tony burps, his own belly stretched as he entertains the thought of a friend in Wilson. Huh.

-

In retrospect, it was perhaps the most elaborate extension of self-preservation.

Tony had been covering the air, more like waiting for Rogers’ stupid command to finally start attacking the bots on the ground because no matter what he reported about the absence of airborne bots, Rogers is being an absolute piece of shit captain and withholding the team from Iron Man’s power blast.

So, whilst Tony was suspended in air as stealthily possible with his glaring red and gold suit allows, bemoaning his commands – which mind you, he’d really love to fucking override that bitch – he also diligently kept his eyes on each of the member, which was why, when he was busy trying to mark that one freckle on Captain America’s left cheek, he saw a single bot hand sneak up from the open man hole next to the man and before he could think twice, he was earthed, blasting a doom bot and practically saving Rogers’ six from getting burnt.

But apparently, Rogers must be running on some kind of ‘I can save my own butt’ ego or just plain ungratefulness because one second, Tony is quipping a smug “Thank you” and in another, the shield is clocked at his chest.

“Hey!”

“I told you to cover the air!” Rogers yells, soot and dirt puffing in their periphery.

Tony blast another bot creeping up from the manhole and yells back, indignant. “I just saved your ass, you dipshit. Least you can say is th-,”

“I didn’t need you saving-,”  
  


Then, as if the Universe made sure to always make Rogers is right, a canon full on doom bots goes blast near Hilton and suddenly there were killer bots raining down on them.

Rogers gives him one final murderous glance before launching attack and Tony thinks, _shit_.

“When I give a command, I expect every member of my team to follow them!”

“You would be as good as dead if I wasn’t there, just admit it!” 

“It’s as if you deliberately pull up a plan of ways you can disobey -,”

“Oh, give be a _break_!”

“Gentlemen!” Fury breaks in. One eye glaring deadly at both Tony and Rogers as he breathes slowly out of flaring nostrils. Yeah, sure Nick Fury is threatening when he wants to be, but Tony has his fucking suit on and he can fucking blast everyone in this stupid fucking room.

Holding his own ground, he takes in hand the helmet he just deposited on the conference table. He has no patience to sit through the rest of this stupid debriefing. Not while there’s that moronic dumb shit of Captain mother-fucking America with his stupid ass perfect face and perfect teeth-,“I saved his ass and if this is how I’m getting treated for that-,”

There’s two distinct interruptions that cuts him off.

“Tony-” Wilson- Sam, begins reproachfully.

Then there’s Fury’s warning, “Stark,” which ultimately decides it for him and he storms out of the room, his head throbbing wildly in its back.

Sam finds him in the workshop sometime when Tony’s got his still-throbbing head under a Bugatti. He doesn’t speak for a long time and Tony’s beyond waiting so he flings an unused wrench from his side, out and grunts, “Still thinking of how you want to grill me?”

There’s a painful squeak of rubber sole pulling over cement floor then Sam sighs and squats, Tony sees from the limited visual field he gets. “I was waiting for you to yell at me. But since we’ve established that neither of us are in mood for that, burger?”

Burger? “Cheeseburger?”

“Duh.” Sam replies and Tony groans in appreciation. He realises how Sam fraternising with Pepper may eventually blow up in his face, but so far there’s only been good things coming so Tony’s tolerating.

The eat in silence. Not even JARVIS was coaxed into a petty argument and Tony realises how exhausting the day has been. From an hour R&D meeting in SHIELD which got rudely interrupted by two doom bots launching themselves across the conference room, then the actual fight which was supposed to be only three hours at max but went on for an extra two and then the whole testosterone fiasco in debriefing-

“Did he make it official that it was my fault?” He asks sullenly, tossing the burger wrapper at DUM-E’s figurative head.

“Nobody’s saying it’s your fault, Tony.” Sam sighs, turning to face him. Tony maintains his gaze on DUM-E whirring in panic trying to locate its assault. “We all know if you didn’t swoop in there to save his ass, he’d be in hospital-,”

“He’d probably take that to-,” A hand lands on his shoulder, silencing him.

“He, Steve. He knows. He’s just – man, I really want to put you both through couple therapy I swear.” He groans, tossing his head back in defeat, then before Tony could ask what he means by that, “Look. You have to understand that he gets pissy face every time someone puts themselves to save his life, you know. And when it was you, I guess it was just a little bit harder-,”

“Why?” Tony interrupts . “Why, was it harder because it was me?”

Sam takes a long look at him, his hand still on Tony’s shoulder squeezing before he lets go and he says in all seriousness. “Because he’s under this impression that your life is worth more than his. And yes, more so than the rest of us-,”

“Don’t.”

“No. You have to know. Because he’s Captain America. He signed up for this shit. I’m ex-army and I’ve got nothing to lose and I’m very used to this shit too. Tony- If you think. Just think about it. None of us got anything else than fight to offer the world but you- man, you’ve got this whole genius, tech thingy going on and when he put it that way, it makes sense.” Sam shrugs, shaking his head in disbelief at his own word perhaps.

Tony gulps. “Is that what-,”

“That’s what _Steve_ thinks.” Sam presses on the name. “Now, don’t look at me. I don’t share his view down to the minute. I’ve got Pepper to come back to and she’ll kill us both if we don’t make it. However that shit works.”

Tony huffs a laugh, something bleeding off his edges and as he sinks into his seat, Sam stands up, going to pick up the wrapper tossed at DUM-E and bids his goodbye, “I’m going to give my she-devil a call while you, I suggest you go sleep it off, man.”

-

The next morning, Tony’s mood is fouler, bearing the brunt of exhaustion coupled with his complete defiance against Sam’s suggestion to sleep it off.

When he sneaks up for coffee at a little past five in the morning, he runs into the last person he’s in the mood to see.

He puts up all his wall as he walks forth stubbornly, pulling out a fresh mug and filling it to the brim with freshly brewed coffee that he didn’t start, which means that Rogers did and by the look of a mug in front of his hunched form at the dinner table, he’s already got himself his own fill but-

It’s a heavy toss between emptying his mug into the sink, starting a new brew and choking a thank you which in the end, Tony chooses neither. Walking out as quickly as he came as he tries to bury down the shame with ‘I paid for the beans!’ chanting explicitly in his head.

As he steps back into the workshop, he notes that how Rogers didn’t even bother to start a conversation with him. Which is alright. Okay. No problem. But for a man who thinks he’s less worthy than Tony, he sure makes Tony feel worthless more often.

-

The next time Rhodey drops in, he’s got a bag of donuts and a bottle of Chardoney and he steps out of his suit yelling “I’m feeling camp today, bitches!”

In a different circumstances, Tony would have joined him with a bottle of scotch himself but as it is, he’s only barely in second hours of sleep compensating his 75 hours of wakefulness plus a shut down of his system which JARVIS diagnosed as anxiety attack but Tony’s not buying.

“Fuck off Rhodes.” He grunts into the pillow but what Rhodey hears is something along the line of _‘mmphmmpphh.’_

“Colonel James Rhodey.” A new voice pipes in and Tony tries to remember if there was a private party scheduled today that he forgot.

“Mr Wilson-,” He hears, Rhodey begin and he can almost envision Rhodey’s back straightening and tight shoulder before another snarky voice comes in in JARVIS’s form “I advise you to not call him Mr Wilson, Colonel-,”

Then it’s a louder, “Fuck off, J baby.” And Tony’s head about to explode.

“GET THE FUCK OUT ALL OF YOU!” He screams at the top of his lungs, eyes crinkled closed as his head drops back into the pillow with a muffled thud. Ow.

There was silence, during which Tony naively believed that he could finally sleep, until there comes a chorus of “Fuck you, Tones,” “Yeah, fuck you, Tony” and a quiet “I’m inclined to imitate these gentleman, sir,” before finally. Finally. He’s left alone.

Thirteen hours later, Tony finds out that Rhodey’s here for the weekend. “Rhodey baby!”

“Oh fuck off.”

An hour after that, he decides Rhodey should leave. “Get out!”

Sam snickers from the single chair as Rhodey flicks Tony on his nose. “Oh, Tony. You’re losing your humour with your youth.”

“Hello!” Tony exclaims. “How is that fair. You two are ganging up on me and I’m supposed to allow you both rip to shreds my left over dignity?” He waves a hand in gesture of ‘come on!’

“You have dignity?” A woman quips and Tony’s about half a second from a cardiac arrest resulting by the proximity of the source.

“Jesus. Fuck!” He swears. “Romanov, stop spying in household.”

Romanov rolls her eyes, hopping into the love seat in between Rhodey and Tony, curling snuggly with her mug of evil brew. “Add hearing problem to the list of things he’s losing with his age, please.” She murmurs and Tony sneaks a peak at the content of the mug.

“What is that?” He asks as Rhodey and Sam start a muted conversation in the background.

Romanov gives him an incredulous look and says, “It’s tea?” In an obvious tone.

Except, it doesn’t look like tea. It’s black. Blacker than Tony’s usual death-coffee and sure, it smells like tea but-, “That can’t be tea.” He squints at the content again.

Romanov’s toes pinch at his thigh making Tony wince in surprised pain. “It is tea, you moron.” She insists and Tony sees where this is going. It’s going to be the ‘mug’ all again. She’s going to make him admit it’s tea no matter how much he refuses to so really, Tony has the options of either arguing with her where she’ll inevitably topple him over physically or just admit defeat right now and safe his energy while simply adding figurative quote , unquote to bracket Romanov’s ‘tea’.

Option two then. “Fine. ‘Tea’.” He concedes grumpily, to which Romanov gives a shocking reaction of actually petting Tony’s head and a mollified, “Good boy.”

His shock apparently reverberates across the communal area, enough to attract Sam and Rhodey’s attention as well because suddenly he’s being laughed at by majority and Tony’s face burns pink.

“Fuck all of you.” He grumbles under his breath. Pulling up the remote and manually flicking through the TV channel, finally trying to make for what the night was planned for. A movie.

A comforting hum of silence settles around them as Tony goes one movie to another, trying to find the best one suited for the mood. In between, there are quipped sound of either protest or a hum of considerations when he pauses longer on certain plots. But ultimately, when he reaches the end of the long line up of his proud collection from all ages, they’re still undecided.

“Lion King.” Romanov throws, hiding half of her face as she sips lengthily on her ‘tea’. Tony’s eyebrows go up as he looks down at her, finding the right word to begin his objection. However, there are united murmurs of agreement coming from Sam and Rhodey that, regardless of his personal feud with the movie he’ll never tell a single soul, he presses on the play icon. Not to mention that Romanov wasn’t even invited in the first place.

Roughly an hour and half later, Romanov’s become Natasha - because how can you not bond with the only other person you come across in your life who hates Lion King as much as you do? (“ _I like pain.”_ She shrugged when Rhodey prodded, _“Why did you choose it?”)-_ and Natasha got her feet slid under Tony’s thighs, half of her body a warm ball of heat as she leans against him, while Rhodey sips on her black ‘tea’.

“That’s not tea, right?” Tony asks with a glimmer of hope that finally there’s someone neutral to judge that trippy content of her mug.

Rhodey takes a long sip, suck his tongue noisily between his teeth as if he’s a newly appointed tea connoisseur- drama, that makes Natasha whack him on the head and Sam sprawled on the floor and propped sideway with one arm to groan. “It’s tea, Tones.” Rhodey declares, shrugging, passing the mug to Sam’s already extended hand and it’s unfair really. Because Natasha refuses to let Tony have a taste, forcing him to rely on those tow knuckleheads to confirm it for him.

“One of these days…,” Tony plots under his breath, distracting Natasha enough to slip a hand under his thigh and tickle at one of her feet. The resulting reaction is a wake up call to all of them – when the spy deftly grabs hold of Tony arm and flips him over onto the floor within half a second, pinning him with her thighs cradling Tony’s face – Sam scrambling up from his easy sprawl and jumping two feet back while Rhodey- that fucking air-force officer- actually abandons the floor at all cost, pulling both legs up on the couch and squatting there with a winced ‘Ooof!’.

Tony pants. Natasha’s smug smirk is the only tell-tale that she’s not going to seriously squeeze his head blue. She rolls off him easily, falling onto her back next to him, releasing but one thigh still lays threateningly pinning Tony’s hip down. “You seriously should join the sparring, Tony.” She suggests sweetly.

Tony’s still blinking wide eyed at the ceiling from the shock of what he’d just experienced. Sam and Rhodey have decided that it was the highlight of the night as they start arguing over ‘how exactly she took him down’ in technical terms. One long exhale after, Tony announces frankly that the party’s over. Slipping out from Natasha’s thigh and heading blurrily to the bar, head spinning trying to wrap around blossoming aches on various places of his body. “I need more alcohol to put up with you people.”

-

Apparently, befriending Sam and Natasha means to get associated with one Captain America.

“It’s like buy two free one, package deal.” Tony grumbles to Pepper one Friday night. “Except you get the free item which you really could do without, you know. Like… rubber band. Who wants a rubber band?”

Pepper, in all her graciousness, have decided to forgive Tony sans an actual apology being uttered. But Pepper’s always good at being the greater person between Tony and her so it was no surprise. It only lasted a pathetic month of Tony spamming her with voice messages, varying from a simple “I called to say hi. Hope you’re not dead,” to “Pepper I got a papercut, I need you to kiss it better,” for Pepper to turn around and kindly ask him to go fuck himself because Tony thought it was the voicemail (it was a honest mistake and it was 2am!) and asked Pepper is Guatemalan blend better or should he go for the spicy Jamaican.

“I thought you bought like six of them.” Pepper hums, one pointed heel swinging lazily, clacking against the cemented workshop floor whenever they came into contact. “You know, when you hacked into Maria’s email to send out the invitation.”

“I did not!” Tony squawked. Temporarily pausing in his calculation to look indignantly up at Pepper.

“Whatever floats your boat, Tony.” Pepper snorts elegantly, the way only she can, before standing up with a sigh. “What is taking that man so long?” She wonders aloud, pulling at the hem of her dress.

Tony gives a surreptitious once-over, appreciating her form. She’s on her bodycon dress, white paired with a vibrant red platform heel and red lips. She’s probably straight out of work with a little touch up to her make-up for the date night, but she looks stunning nevertheless. “He’s probably trying to find the best pants to emphasize his thighs and butt.” Tony shrugs, pulling up a different rendition of the repulsor model he’s working on.

“He doesn’t have to.” Pepper sighs again, slumping back into the chair as she cranes her long neck to left and right. She looks exhausted, now that Tony takes a good look at her.

“Hey, Pep?” He flicks a scrunched up memo in her direction, trying to keep the mood light. “You’re happy right?” He knows he doesn’t show it but Pepper knows that he cares. Regardless -

Pepper’s bright brown eyes go all soft, her red lips pursing into a poor resemblance of a pout as she sniffles. “Oh, Tony. Look at you, actually caring about my happiness.” She feigns a sob and Tony resists from throwing the entire stack of memo at her. “Fuck you too, Pepper.” He snaps, stubbornly turning away from her and tuning out her chiming laughter.

“I am, Tony.” He says, a while later. When Sam gives a single knock before entering (probably because of his manners and what not cause JARVIS stopped asking Tony for permission after he noticed Sam’s been dropping by to feed Tony). “You are, right?” She hushes lowly, probably trying to get it out before her ‘boyfriend’ – god, Tony could never get used to that – could guess what they’re talking about.

But Sam reaches them quicker than Tony could reply so her question goes unanswered.

“Finally found something to fit your butt in?” Tony smirks at him, picking up a pencil just to gnaw on to Pepper’s immense disapproval. “You’re going to die of lead poisoning!”

Both Sam and Tony roll their eyes at her. While Tony goes for mocking her words, Sam curls an arm around her shoulder and kisses her forehead, “That’s not possible, honey.”

“Ugh.” Tony gags. “Get your schmoopy asses out of my sight. You’re infecting my workplace with cooties.”

Pepper rolls her eyes this time, picking up her bag. “See you, Tony.” She kisses his temple, brushing a thumb at it affectionately, and Tony can’t help but watch how Sam reacts to that. If he was expecting jealousy, he’s gladly let down because apparently Sam is as big of a person as Pepper is. He has no ounce of hostility on his face except for a fond smile as his eyes stay fixed with adoration on Pepper, even when DUM-E pokes at his side in greeting.

Pepper gives a gentle squeeze to his arm, her eyes spanning meaningfully over Tony and she nods with a satisfied smile when she has found whatever she wanted there.

“Bye, Tony!” Sam waves over his shoulder as he steers Pepper away and out of Tony’s workshop, departing with a tiny pat to DUM-E’s claw.

He tries to get back to work after that, but to no avail. Concentration ruined, Tony set to the kitchen in hope of a warm mug of coffee. Maybe he’ll take time to make himself a cappuccino. A good pattern swirled on top and maybe he’ll use one of those richer blends, the one that Pepper brought back from her trip to- Oh! Maybe a mocha-

“Hey, Tony.”

“Motherffu- Romanov!” Tony jumps, clutching at his chest, glaring at the amused red-head.

“I haven’t fucked anyone’s mother as of I know, but yeah, go on.” Natasha tilts her head slightly, flinging both legs up the dinner table and crossing at the ankles. She’s clad in her stealth suit, throw-knives scattered on the table with a small flat stone she uses for sharpening them. Tony had offered (and by offered, read: mentioned loudly) about better ways to do the job but the Russian spy seems to have a preference. That, or some weird sentimental attachment which Tony could live without knowing about.

“I doubt that.” Tony narrows his eyes, drooping his hand from his chest as he takes a sharp inhale and tries to remember why he’s in the kitchen- Oh, right. Mochaccino.

“There was that woman in Cleveland.” A deeper voice supplies from behind Tony and he’s just about to not jump out of his bones for the second time in less than five seconds. Dammit.

“Jesus. Christ.” He curses under his breath this time, gritting his teeth hard. He should have known. Of course Rogers is going to be around. God, they move like in a herd. Brutes.

  
“Pretty sure that was her nephew.” Natasha shrugs, picking up one of her knives and Tony sighs, deciding that he’ll just have to do with an espresso this time. Quick and easy, then he’ll be out.

For the sake of sanity, Tony thinks as he presses at the coffee machine. The ongoing banter about whether Natasha really fucked someone’s mother muted as he breathes in and out, trying to not give into his nagging want to turn around and actually look at Rogers.

It’s absurd, how much he’s attracted to Rogers. Given that Rogers is incredibly hot; the typical tall, blonde and handsome with bulks of muscles that are designed to make anybody swoon, but it’s something more to that which is bothering Tony. He’s not supposed to be turned on by all the righteousness he hates with so much passion, but that is exactly what makes his head spin in cycles late at night when he’s got stickiness on his fingers and the shock realization that he’d just come to memories of Rogers steely blue eyes and pressed lips as he dared Tony to go against his orders. Hot.

“Bye, Nat.” He coughs, concentrating on the sweltering heat of the refilled coffee mug wrapped in his hand as he trudges past the dining are and into the elevator, breath held tight in his chest.

He hears a sing song, “Bye, Tony,” and a hushed “ _Nat_?” as the door closes, bringing him down to the workshop where DUM-E is probably still sweeping the corner while Butterfinger shreds paper everywhere except into the waste paper bin.

“One day I’m gonna donate them. One day.”

-

“Sir, Captain Rogers is requesting entrance.”

Tony jerks to a stop. Blow torch flaming at its tip as he squints to find possible reasons for Rogers to come find him. He didn’t recently set any lethal thing lose by accident. Didn’t go ‘lose canon’ on the comm either. Sides, their last mission was ages ago.

Did he set fire somewhere?

“Sir?”

Tony blinks. “Send him in, J.”

“Whatsup?” He asked once Rogers walk in, going back to the point where he stopped the welding and carrying on. A quick glance shows him the captain blinking like a fish out of water so Tony switched off the blow torch with a sigh and directed all his focus on him for once. The quicker he gives what Rogers wants, the quicker he gets his peace back. “What can I help you with?”

“I – I thought Sam would be here.” Rogers looks so uncomfortable Tony feels almost bad for him. _Almost._

“He’s not.” He says flatly. Now that he’d noticed, this is the first time Rogers stepped into the workshop without being flanked by his trust-buddy. That answers the way he’s struggling to stand still on his feet then, as if he’s on a floor of lava.

“Oh.” Rogers hesitates, then turns around to leave so Tony thought why not supply a clue, for all that effort he put in to come find Sam in Tony’s space, it must be something urgent.

“He’s on a date with Pepper. Don’t know where, before you ask me.”

Rogers reaction is a little too exaggerated in Tony’s opinion. Well until he opens his mouth and says, “Sam is dating Pepper? I thought-,” He cuts off as abruptly as he begun as if swallowing his own tongue to keep those next words hidden which only makes Tony more curious. Who would have thought the Captain wasn’t aware of his sidekick’s relationship status? Huh.

“You thought what?”

The question seems to make Rogers wince but Tony levelled him with a look until he mumbles something like, “I thought you and Pepper-,”

Oh. “We’re a history. Now, Sam and Pep; that’s the present and dare I say, future too.” He waves the blow torch in Rogers direction. “On the other hand, I was under the impression that sidekicks are supposed to report A to Z to their main. I’m surprised you didn’t know bout Sam and Pep dating at all.

“Sam’s not my sidekick.” Rogers retaliates. Once again, opting to take everything Tony says a tad too seriously and just being the single most driest prune in the entire universe. What’s a joke even is to the great Captain America.

“You seriously need to loosen up, Cap.” He tsk-ed disapprovingly

Wrong move. Rogers looks like he’s about to throw something head-first at Tony, but is barely holding himself in. “And you seriously need to learn manners.”

The blow torch hits the glass door in time as it shuts close behind Rogers. Tony takes ten deep breaths. In and out, in and out and then another ten, and another ten, until he feels too faint and drops his head onto the work table with a loud thud.

-

“I am in no clear conscience joining anything that requires me sitting in close proximity of Captain Asshat for more than 30 minutes.” Tony lets the wrench slip the last distance from his hand and land with a loud thud to fortify his point.

Sam grimaces while Pepper stands steadfast. Her attempts to placate him is admirable but she seriously cannot be expecting Tony to willing join Sam and her having dinner with Rogers. “It sounds like a fucking double date!” He whirls around in his chair until it comes to a sudden stop in front of her.

“It’s a team dinner, Tony. Natasha, Clint and Bruce will be there too.”

“Still not coming.” Tony shakes his head stubbornly. Although that extra bit of information they _just_ thought to spring on him is nice to hear, but nope. “I’d rather sit through six hours of board meeting than be near him.”

Sam who’d been quiet this entire time snorts. Tony glares at him. “Sorry it’s just funny how we got both you and Steve finally agreeing on something.”

Hurt flashes across Tony’s chest but he brushes it aside and puts on a triumphant façade. “See! Even Captain Kirk has the same idea. So you both know how if you traipsed past all our obvious warnings that you’re not gonna be achieving something nice right?”

At this, Pepper seemed to have reached the nail-end of her patience. “Anthony Stark, you are attending the Avengers team dinner this Friday night at eight pm sharp on the clock whether you like it or not. I will _personally_ see through that it happens.”

Inadvertent chills run down Tony’s spine. He looks at Sam for help but Sam’s all ‘I surrender’ to Pepper Potts superiority. Tony, with his tail tucked between his legs has not other option than to accept his ill fate.

-

Needless to say, the dinner is a blow to all of their guts. Tony barely stepped into the kitchen when the sight of Rogers banging the TV remote on the sofa end bludgeons him in the face all the way to Easter Sunday.

“What. The. Fuck. Are you doing?”

Rogers freezes in his stance, a deep scowl taking its usual place on his face. “The remote is not working.” He bites it out word by word. Tony slaps a hand across his own face, frustration boiling at the surface.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re banging my 500$ remote. Which I personally modified so now add another 1500 to its cost.” _You Neanderthal_ is right there at the tip of his tongue, but Tony forces himself to swallow it before Pepper prints out a document entitled _‘All the things you did wrong to provoke Captain America’_

Rogers is still standing. If Tony would just forgive him for his barbaric behaviours, he’ll add ten more minutes to upstanding tonight’s dinner.

With that thought in mind, he snatches the remote from Rogers with a snappy ‘give me that’ and focused on making it work without spilling any expletives that could set off the ticking bomb in the room.

He’s left alone in the living room as Rogers trudges to the kitchen to probably whine to Natasha and Sam who are already there preparing the food. He can’t help the annoyed noise that escapes his lips, progressing to a steady grumble under his breath until Clint Barton surprises the fuck out of him.

“Warn a man, will you.” Tony snarls, clutching at his chest.

The pest dares to laugh at him. “Not my fault you don’t have your six covered, Stark.”

“Keep telling yourself that and I’m gonna explode your six with my repulsor one day.” Barton deliberately barks a laugh at his face and Tony seriously considers hurling the remote at his stupid face. But then again, why should he waste 2000$ on a face that isn’t even worth tenth of that price.

“Any idea what Sam’s cooking? By the way Cap’s shadowing Nat, pretty sure she’s making her super-secret szarlotka.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Why bother wasting time when we could just order some deliveries?”

His remark seems to personally offend Barton’s personal for he dramatically clutches a his chest and put a whole front of it. But Tony’s picks on the hurt from the way his nose crunches up and his eyes crinkle in a clear distaste. “I can’t believe you would even suggest that. Money isn’t everything Stark. If it wasn’t for the rent-free stay, I would have demanded my present from you, and believe me, I would have made it specifically clear that it cost you nothing.”

“Present?” Tony scoffs. “Barton, I’ve supplied you free arrows costing more than your entire SHIELD pay-checks combined.” He flicking through the channels just to have something to do. He swears Pepper deliberately forced him to come hours early just to torture him. “How long more are we supposed to wait?”

Barton snatches the remote from him and tosses it blindly over his shoulder. “Do you even know what we’re celebrating tonight?”

Tony fixes him with mild interest. “We’re celebrating?”

Barton seems to struggle with himself for a moment before squaring up his shoulder. “It’s my birthday, dude. I’m taking full offense of your ignorance and you shall only be pardoned if you provide me with a lifetime supply of gadgets.” He ended with a Gandalf-esque grandeur gesture.

Tony is momentarily stumped because he honestly has no single idea about this. All Pepper told him was that is was a team dinner, something about bonding experiences and nothing about it being Barton’s fucking birthday party.

But Tony, also equipped with endless social experiences, schools his expressions before they give away and claims with his button nose up in the air that, “I’ve known it all along, Barton. I’m just playing with you.”

“Uh, huh.” Barton definitely doesn’t buy it but it’s good enough leeway for him to escape there anyway.

Belatedly he realises the other option would be the kitchen, which would set him in a closer proximity to the trigger to his insanity. But he’d really rather insanity to wallowing in guilt, which by the way, reminds him; “J, pick a gift for Barton and make it ASAP.” Which also reminds him that he ought to have a word with JARVIS about reminding him of people’s birthdays and stuffs.

“Why did nobody tell me that it was Barton’s birthday?” He hisses, sliding up to Sam who’s fanning the air so the smoke from whatever he put in the oven doesn’t set off the fire alarm. He takes a lungful of the mouth watering aroma and sighs.

Sam pulls out a cheesy looking casserole. “Lasagne!” Tony whoops. Sue him, a good lasagne is akin to doodoo bird and judging by how good this one smells and Sam has an outstanding portfolio when it comes to cooking, so Tony is willing to bet that this is _the_ doodoo bird of all lasagne.

Sam manoeuvres all the stuffs around the kitchen table to place the dish and Tony sticks to his side like a glue, earning him a murderous glare from Natasha who was having difficulties reaching for salt because Tony was in her way.

He’s about to surreptitiously stick one finger into the casserole for a taste when something knocks him by the elbow, almost sending the dish flying to the ground. Clutching at his chest, he sends one panic glace to check if Sam saw that, but Sam seems to be preoccupied with a hushed argument with Natasha at near the stove.

He turns to glare at the thing which collided against him. Which of course had to be the giant Captain Fucktard. “Watch where you’re going!” He snarls under his breath.

“You watch where you’re standing.” Rogers snaps back.

Tony feels the dire need to stab him with the kitchen knife. Then empty the salt bottle over the wound. “Fuck off, Rogers.”

Rogers opens his mouth to retaliate when something flies past both of their head, lodging neatly on one of the top kitchen cabinet with an echoing ‘thud’. A fork.

“Both of you. Fuck off. Hovering over like drooling puppies. Can’t even get one thing done in this kitchen!” Natasha growls menacingly and both Tony and Rogers scamper for life.

-

Tapping fork to his champagne glass – arranged the whole champagne thing last minute through JARVIS much to Sam and Nat’s bewilderment -, Tony calls for everyone’s attention.

“So in the light of today’s occasion, I would like to offer my best wishes to birdbrain here.” And he looks straight at Barton, a curt nod and a salute with his champagne flute, he wishes, “Happy Birthday, Barton.”

At once, ruckus breaks out.

“What do you mean it’s Clint’s birthday?” Steve gapes like a goldfish.

“I don’t think Barton’s birthday is today, Tony.” Bruce wipes his glasses.

Natasha snorts a mouthful of bubbly alcohol. Very elegant. While Barton himself downs the entire flute with an indulgent smirk, going for a second pour.

Tony yanks the Moet away, “What do you mean, it’s not? Isn’t that the reason we’re gathered here today?” He slaps away Barton’s prying hand so hard, he yelps and Tony himself, hisses.

“Fucker lied to you, Tony.” Natasha rolls her eyes, stealthily reaching and taking away the Moet from him. Smooth stealth moves.

“You asshat.” Tony flings a cucumber slice at Barton’s cackling face. Goal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was how out of reach was born


	4. steve & bucky - bucky barnes starts dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- except i stopped before he does  
> it was meant to be a buckytony fic

“Ninety years is a very long time, Stevie.” Bucky sighs, placing two large bags of produces he’d procured from the Farmer’s market. He picks out the berries first, careful to not squash them, then the carrots, cabbage and kielbasa. He takes a moment to admire the perfect round shape of the onions. Maybe the goulash will work out fine.

By the door, Steve stands, his serum enhanced body – which still trips Bucky up sometimes what with playing puzzle with his already scattered memories – lean against its frame, as he watches Bucky with a contemplative look. The morning sun glints off from the shiny counter and highlights the green specs in Steve’s ocean blue eyes, catching Bucky’s attention.

Steve’s a… beautiful man. Is and always has been. Even when he was 90 pounds soaking wet with failing organs and death minutes away from his door, he’d always been beautiful and Bucky isn’t ashamed to admit to thinking that. Because facts are facts, sour or sweet and that’s one thing that he’d learned to accept after nine decades of living.

Just like how he’s a murderer, despite how they insist that he was just the gun and not the hand pointing. Nobody likes a gun. Especially once they’re personally encountered one – Natasha excepted, but she’s akin; a murderer, so whatever.

Facts are facts.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Steve breaks his silence, moving away from the door so he could take a seat across from where Bucky stands, sorting out the dry ingredients into the respective storage places.

Bucky fetches the knife from it’s stand next to the sink. There’s one slid between the waistband and his hip but nobody has to see that unless necessary. He’s careful as he cuts the salt packet, making sure the hole is small enough to pour but to not spill when he fills up the expensive, shapely looking salt container. If it was up to him, he’d just reuse one of those jam containers to store pepper and salt and various other dried herbs and spices but it wasn’t up to him so he keeps his mouth shut and simply goes with the flow.

“You’re asking me to go on dates.” He taps the salt container a few times for good measure before sliding it next to its other half, tying up the still full salt packet with a rubber band he slipped off of bundle of carrots. He gives Steve a harsh glance, just in case the point didn’t go across his thick, stubborn skull.

But he shouldn’t have known better. Steve’s skull is after all, thick as fuck. “And?”

Leaning hard against the counter, Bucky closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. “And I don’t want to go on them.” He breathes out.

There’s a whine when Steve opens his mouth and asks, “But why?”

“Cause I’m too old, Steve.” Bucky yanks out the chef knife and the cutting board, pulling out three carrots and starting by slicing off their heads and root tips before chopping them into block of circles.

“I’m old too. But I still try.” Steve persists, rounding up the counter, abandoning his sleek island chair to sidle up to Bucky and pop a carrot piece into his mouth. “I go on dates. They’re alright. You don’t have to tell them your actual age if you’re not ready yet, but people nowadays are a lot more open than they were during our time, they don’t usually mind.”

Bucky swipes clean the cutting board – chopped carrots falling into the metal bowl he’d placed at its age, seated in the sink – and he pulls out the final three. He’s not surprised that Steve’s not getting it. “You’re only old in age.” He mutters, cleaving the cabbage in half.

“What do you mean by that?”

Perhaps, if it was the Bucky from the past – Steve’s Bucky – the one who’s too invested in Steve’s wellbeing, he wouldn’t have said it. Or perhaps it’s the old age, wearing him down thin in both patience and control and he has absolutely no hesitation in speaking his mind; “You spent seventy years frozen, basically asleep while the world struggled to move on and then you’re up and running around like a gazelle. It’s not the same for me, pal.” He paused briefly to look – really, look – at Steve. “I got frozen here and there but I saw what happened okay. All those revolutions, the changes and rebellions. What with the entire mind-fuck thing, I’m _feeling_ the years, Stevie.”

Returning to his cabbage, he chops the half into another half and set to slicing it thickly. The _leave me alone_ , is unspoken but Steve and him are above vocalization. The man doesn’t say another word after that. In fact, he leaves the whole ‘dating’ topic alone for three months.


	5. stevetony - coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried office au and gave up as soon   
> the man is steve ofc

Tony’s been having a spectacular day. A spectacularly terrible one that is. It started with a coffee stain on his white button down then escalated to being publicly yelled at by his boss. Now he’s on the brink of a meltdown because his laptop just shut down out of nowhere, swallowing in 20 pages of unsaved project.

“Fuck!” He hisses, tapping manically at the power button and along the way, he bodily slams into something but his head is aching more than his shoulder and his ears are ringing from panic enough to drown out the affronted ‘hey!’ shouted for him so he barges on. Dress shoes stomping down the tiled floor, in blind direction of his cubicle.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

If he’s going to lose his two months work on this single project that will guarantee his step up the corporate ladder, this is really not the way to go. He can take a broken femur, a half a year coma and even death but not this stupid fucking 2000 dollar worth MacBook shutting down and potentially deleting all his progress.

“C’mon!” He hisses, “I didn’t’ shave off my bank account to pay for this shit. You’re supposed to be good!” He feels so betrayed. After all, this is a fairly new splurge, given that that empty carton of his old dell just recently met its death.

But the MacBook doesn’t even flicker. Not a single thing.

“Maybe you should charge it.” A voice comes through in soft suggestion, snatching Tony’s focus for a millisecond. He barely gets a look, simply registers that it’s a white male with a neat look before his brain slams forward in his skull and he recalls dumbly when the last time he bothered with charging the stupid fuck.

“Here.” The man extends an end of a wire and Tony takes it distractedly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, hands shaking in finding the connection to his device and the moment it plugs, the MacBook’s power button blinks a bright blue and Tony sinks into his chair with a heavy exhale.

“Oh my god.” He palms his face with two hands. “Thank god.” Then he thinks twice and amends. “Thank _you_!” He says, wiping down his face with trembling fingers to finally look at his saviour. The man chuckles, shaking his head mouthing ‘no problem’ and Tony smiles, going back to try and retract his unsaved file grumbling under his breath. “Now, if just the autosave was actually ‘on’ and…,”

And, there it is.

Project ‘I need a pay-rise’. Glaring in it’s 20 pages of brightness in exactly the form Tony last left it.

“Thank fucking god you’re a smart fuck and not a stupid fuck.” He points at the device, fingers almost caressing at the screen when he hears a pointed throat clearing.

“And thank _you_ too!” He chants. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. For saving my entire 20 cents life from a massive wipe-out of the century.” He got a coffee stain on his white shirt, a mussed up ‘I tried my best on this bed-head’ hair and a burn that is still stinging on his right thumb from his last venture to get a decent cup of coffee and breaking the whole mug on the office’s pantry floor which he then had to clean up cause the janitor yelled at him and Tony’s pretty sure, this is his day of hell but thank god for small miracle.

“Really,” He says earnestly. “Thank you so much.”

The man – a six feet two tall, handsome, ‘I-am-totally-Calvin-Klein’s-type’ gorgeous muscles with a sweet smile – goes bright pink in his ears, stammering, “No, no no, it’s alright. I-I-It’s really nothing.” And Tony has to take a moment to actually look at him. Because, yes, for one, he’s fucking gorgeous, but also, how is he this not eloquent and blushing and a straight up- did he mention gorgeous?

“I’d like to buy you a coffee.” He splutters, all the anxiety clearing and his brain fully melted into a puddle and in his defence, he really doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore but there it is. A mistake, but a honest one which, “I’m sorry, it’s not meant as a come one-,” Who is he kidding, of-fucking-course it was a come on, but Mr Saviour doesn’t need to know that for now, “If you want- I mean, it’s a thank you but- But-,” Oh. Just. Stop. Tony.

“I’d love one.” Mr Saviour says, the pink of his ears a blistering red now and he entire neck goes and endearing splotchy red. He’s so perfect, Tony thinks privately.

“Okay,” He says. “Yeah. Yeah- I mean, Now?”

“The pantry’s always available.”

Oh, but Tony wants a café. With romantic music and pink cheeks and warm scarves wrapped around and he imagines a luxurious taste on his tongue as he enjoys his gorgeous view. Now, that would be a dream. As for the reality-

“Yea, of course-,” He rubs at his head, realising what a mess he might look like right now and belatedly he feels his own face burn. Shit.

“Come on?” The perfect specimen asks and Tony follows.

The pantry coffee is a cup of sand. Diluted to its best potential in hot water and it taste like it exactly should. Sandy.

“I should treat you with better coffee.” Tony mumbles regrettably. Then he looks up and proposes bravely, “Let me bring you out for a better coffee.” He asks. “A good café and great cakes and I’ll promise it will be worth it.” He says.

“Is that a gratitude or a date?” The man chuckles, ducking his head to sip of that dreadful coffee and Tony can’t help the swell of fondness that blossoms within him.

“Both.” He murmurs surely. “A little more latter than the former but yes. Both.” He confirms

The man swallows, then looks up, blue eyes bright and overwhelming as he studies Tony and nods firmly as if it’s a challenge and he’s willing. “Okay.”

Tony’s lips quirk up at the corner and he nods back. “Okay.”


	6. stevetony - tony post cacw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to write a post cacw fic.

“You’re not sleeping again.”

The voice startles him out of concentration. Wrist pausing just for a second but not altogether as he continues wielding. But his singular focus is lost, neurons blasted in various directions, firing at rapid speed and he feels the headache coming again.

“I’m fine.” He gritted out. Leaving the blow torch and reaching for the hammer. The metal in his hand burns through his torn wielding glove. Scalding hot, but nothing to cause him second degree burns. He hears the soft tapping in the background, knows that FRIDAY is placing an order for a brand new pair.

“Tony.” The sigh is weary. Worn and defeated.

Tony ignores. Picking up the pace of hammering. Loud bangs echoing in the otherwise empty tower. Louder and louder until he can almost drown everything else out, feeling all his neurons refocusing with each bang and he wants that. That singularity, no more dispersion, at least not when he’s running 75hours with no sleep and yesterday’s coffee.

When he finally stops. Steve is no longer there.

*

“Hey, Pep.” He begins.

Stops.

“Delete it, FRI.” he sighs.

“Of course, boss. Do you want me to delete the history of your unanswered calls as well, while I’m at it?”

Tony nods. The ruined skin of his palm prickling as he drags them down his face, feeling oil and smudges and grease.

“Would you like me to call Colonel Rhodes, boss?” His AI pipes softly, and it’s really not possible but Tony could feel the pity thick in her tone and he despises that.

He shakes his head. Hating that welling of strange feeling that happens sometimes when FRIDAY says something that inevitably makes him think of JARVIS and – And, well…

He leaves the workshop before the thought could fenestrate. One foot after another as he blinks away the blurriness and vertigo, exiting the stairway and entering the barren kitchen.

He’s facing the coffee machine when he’s interrupted.

“You should eat something.”

Tony flinches. Almost colliding with the counter as he jerks forward because that was strangely too close for his liking.

“Tony.”

He bites his tongue and glares at the black drip of coffee into his mug until it stops. When he turns to reach for sugar, no one’s there.

*

He reaches the compound in record time. The traffic favouring his luck, letting him zoom pass three straight green lights at a go.

“I’m calling Pizza, you can decide on the movie.” He drops the car key with a loud clatter onto the coffee table. It’s been a comfort weight in his hand compared to the usual cards, old cars and heavy keys, maybe he’s feeling nostalgic.

“Hello to you too, Tony.” Rhodey smiles at him, perched on the kitchen stool with his Starkpad.

Tony joins him, nodding at Vision when the android floats through the wall and nods in return. He’s careful to not keep his eyes too long on Vision, there’s too many complicated tangles there which Tony avoids religiously. For starter, he sounds like JARVIS but is _not_ JARVIS. “Tea, Rhodey? You must be getting old.”

Rhodey snorts, “Like you can talk.” He says, putting down the Starkpad and allowing Tony to lean closer when he stands up. His steps are still jagged like a saw edge. He stumbles. Still falls flat on his face occasionally, according to FRIDAY. But Rhodey marches on, like the soldier he is.

Vision doesn’t stay for the chatter, or the food. He drops in halfway through the movie, floats around like a ghost in the living room until he’s bored and he leaves. Tony asks Rhodey what’s up with him. He gets a nonchalant shrug but Tony knows better. After all, nothing’s been the same ever.

“Pepper called.” Rhodey says, picking up a stray chip off the couch. “She’s worried that you’re keeping too quiet.”

Tony eases the urge to tense, stretching his lips into a faraway smile. Internally, he’s thorn between thanking FRIDAY for erasing every trace of his effort and beating himself up for being such a coward.

“Tony.”

“Yeah.” He blinks. “I’ve been.. Occupied. Thinking of moving to Malibu, let SI take over the tower.” He lies. But he’s almost believing it himself. Why not? Sounds like a good plan after all.

Rhodey’s silent, but his eyes remain on Tony, assessing. He knows that stare. “You’re trying to decrypt me.” He smirks.

“I’m trying to think what you’re doing to yourself.”

Tony inhales sharply. Recalling every fragments of yesterdays memories, trying to see how in the storm of everything he could have given such an idea to Rhodey. He finds nothing. “What exactly am I doing, Rhodes?” He levels the challenging stare.

“Between today and your last visit here, when was the last time you got out of that tower?”

Tony doesn’t answer. He picks up the mugs and bowls, placing them in the sink. Discards the empty pizza box, stores away the half emptied one in the refrigerator, grabs his car key and walks out.

*

“There’s a new signature matching that of Dr Banner in the East Asia, boss.” FRIDAY quips one afternoon, when Tony’s elbow deep in the Ferrari’s gut. Black grease coating most of his right forearm as he loosens a nut on the engine with the spanner in his left.

“Pull it up,” He grunts, pulling out his right hand, wiping away the grease, more accurately, smudging them with the already grease laden cloth DUM-E holds out for him. He snatches his smoothie on the way to the monitor, sipping a mouthful and dumping it into the dumpster when he tastes metal on his tongue.

Squinting, he pinches out the red dot of the holographic layout in front of him, expanding the view until he can see the satellite view of Macau.

He’s became immune over the years to the detection of traces leading to Bruce, the initial whoop of excitement and anxiousness at finally locating his friend fading with each cold trails, so when it once again happens to be a false alarm, he doesn’t even feel the slightest drop in his stomach this time.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”

He jumps. Hand going immediately to where the arc reactor used to be. _Breathe_ , he reminds himself.

“FRIDAY.”

“Yes, boss?” The AI answers cheerily.

Tony’s heart a steady hammer in his chest. “How long has it been since I last slept?”

“Exactly seven hours, boss.”

Tony swallows, his throat dry and rough. “Why are you here?” He asks his company.

“Urm, boss?” He hears the AI question overhead. The worry is palpable in her sweet tone, speeding up Tony’s heart rate a notch.

“Not you, FRI,” he murmurs to her. Then louder, “Why’re you here?”

The man in front him smiles, a sad thing that pierces through Tony like a spear. Or a shield, better. Wedged smack into the arc reactor, breaking, _destroying –_

The smile falters, wrinkles appearing in clear forehead as the man tilts his head to his left, as if he knows what Tony’s been thinking and he’s reacting to that. “I know I hurt you, Tony.” He says.

Tony’s breath hitches and stutters. This is not right. It’s getting out of control. He closes his eyes, shakes his head like a great shaggy dog, then he opens them again.

Steve is not there, but he can hear the echo of his words still.

_“Hopefully, one day you can understand.”_

*

The office is a crisp thing. White and black with some odd shades of grey thrown in. Pathological, is what it screams.

“Is this your first time?”

Tony smooths the inexistent crease on his pants, glasses perched high on his nose as he offers a tight lipped smile at the immaculately dressed man in front him. “Take a wild guess, doc.”

Dr Vijayesh Joshi, with his array of certificates and PhD’s relating to psychology, psychotherapy and you get the gist. All thing, medical mind disease. Peachy, keen. FRIDAY did a good job at finding a suitable candidate to unravel him. Yay, FRIDAY.

“I’m not going to fall for your bait, Mr Stark. I want to be able to… Make you feel better about yourself.”

A scoff slips out to quick for him to stop. Tony straightens up in his seat, the brown eyes of Dr Joshi boring into him. “Sorry.” He says, few seconds after. He receives a small smile in respond to that.

“Don’t feel bad, this is a profession that has its many disbelievers.”

“Oh. But-,”

But Tony wasn’t making fun of the profession. He just thought that the idea of him feeling better about himself is a far-fetched notion. “ – That wasn’t. Yeah.” He clears his throat. Index brushing at the tiny little pin at the frame of his watch. Itching. Dr Joshi looks like he’s waiting. The clock, the goddamn clock he has behind him, fuck is it loud! So loud.

He clears his throat again. Eyes skittering above the other man’s shoulder. _Shit, shit, shit_ : echoes in his head.

“Mr Stark?” It’s a reproachful thing, the way he says it. As if Tony is a rabid animal that needs calming down. He doesn’t feel like a rabid animal though. He’s fine. Everything’s fine.

He presses his index in, “Yeah.” His burning vessels immediately feel cold seeps in them. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here. I just realised I have something urgent to attend to, and – And, would you mind? I’ll have someone reschedule our appointment another day.” It’s so easy to lie through his teeth. Paparazzi smile on, full watt beam and he’s on his feet, one hand extended for a handshake the doctor is forced to adhere to and he does, albeit looking confused as fuck. But he does, they shake hands and Tony’s out.

“I get A+ for effort alone, FRI.” He insist in his workshop later. Two cheeseburger heavy in his stomach, feeling like they may burst out anytime. Fuck, stress eating.

*

It becomes a new thing, on nights he cannot sleep, when he ends up staying past his 48 hours mark, he instructed FRIDAY to turn up the music, play some loud videos on occasions when he does end up hallucinating Steve.

“You’re not real.” He says, when it happens. Not that it helps at all. At first two occurrences, it did. But after that, the hallucination persisted.

He knows that his appointment with a psychiatrist at this point is long due. He doesn’t even know a crack of what’s going on with him when he starts seeing Steve even before the 48 hours mark. Not just in the workshop anymore. Not just the voice, but full body. Head to toe with the accuracy to the point tee.

Once when Tony enters his penthouse after a long day of board meetings at SI, Steve was in the kitchen, mug in his hands, Stark-pad on the counter and he looked up at Tony with that smile he always gave Tony in the past in greetings, when Tony delivers some good news, when they win the battle and it looks pink and sad, relieved but still sad and it is so Steve that Tony almost bought it.

“Steve?” Because what if?

What if, it really was Steve and not some made up projection of his fucked brain. Maybe it was Steve. But of course, FRIDAY’s soft ‘Boss?’ that answered him was grounding enough for him to walk away from the penthouse and into the workshop. 

FRIDAY is up his ass with worries. Insisting for him to talk to someone. To find a new therapist but Tony doesn’t know if its therapist he needs or psychiatrist now. She’s persistent but she’s not JARVIS and there are delicate lines in their relationship that she’s too afraid to cross. Tony doesn’t know if he’s grateful for that or he wishes she’d just sock him across the jaw and ask him to pull his shit straight.

Tony doesn’t know exactly what he wants. He doesn’t know many things now.

*

“You missed movie night.” Rhodey greets him, breaking the thick tension in the room, veiled the moment Tony met Pepper’s eyes over the counter.

He swallows painfully and looks away. Vision is nowhere to be seen. “We’re still doing that?”

Rhodey’s walking aid whirs as he approaches. Tony makes a mental mark to correct that when he works on its upgrade. “Since when Pepper joined the Avengers?” He hisses when Rhodey’s close enough to hear.

“I hear that Tony. I got perfect hearing to keep up with all your rumours and scandals.” Pepper pipes from the adjoined kitchen. Rhodey laughs, Tony groans.

“I can even hear what you’re doing in your workshop, working late hours enough to lose your sleep and your sanity along with it, huh?” She grins, handing him a glass of Martini and it’s a joke for her but boy, did it hit a home run in Tony’s reality. “Virgin.” She declares flatly when Tony wrinkles his nose, the sip lingering wrongly in his tongue.

They spend the evening with Pepper’s Sheppard pie and Lord of the Ring marathon. Flanked by Pepper and Rhodey on each side, Tony lets his guard down and makes himself comfortable. By the second movie, he has his feet curled beneath Rhodey’s thigh (“It’s fine, I don’t even feel a thing”) and head in Pepper’s lap. Familiar fingers carding through his curls as he relaxes and finally _breathes_. He’s idly wondering why was he even scared to call Pepper in the first place when Vision stops by to give an offhand remark on Samwise Gamgee’s devotion to protect Frodo Baggins and stays until the third one ends.

“Stay.” Rhodey says and he bunks over at his old room, with minimal complains after bidding goodbye to Pepper at 4.30am (“Why does she get to drive this late?” “I have an early morning flight, Tony.”)

And that was that. Getting together and slotting back in perfectly just so easily. If only the rest of his relationships can work that way too.

*

It’s Sunday evening. Tony knows because he just saw the news.

_“Unusual explosion in Moscow forest alerted the Russian government to potential terrorist act.”_

Bullshit.

Five seconds from his command, FRIDAY pinned down the source and “Fuck.”

It’s an old HYDRA basement. Hidden deep in the cold forest of Moscow which, two guesses who, decided to track down and blow into unrecognizable pieces.

“Should I alert the Accord, boss?”

“No!” He bans, quick on his feet as if FRIDAY’s mere suggestion of such act poses incredible threat to his life. He doesn’t even know why he summoned the gauntlet until there’s a soft, “Tony” over his shoulder.

Hands, neither warm or cold, covering over his gauntlet, pushing it down until its by his side and Tony shudders, feeling growing pressure along the length of his back. This isn’t real, his brain supplies. But it looks so real, he argues.

Look at that hand. The way those fingers cover his and bend. The length, the proportion.

“Go away.” He chokes.

The answer is a breathy thing that sends tiny hair over his nape erect. “You don’t really mean that, Tony.”

FRIDAY’s frantic “Boss?” is ringing through the workshop as Tony gives in under the weight of his legs, kneecaps colliding against the cemented floor as he cradles his head in desperation. Teeth clenched tight, breath hissing through the gaps, he shivers,“Go away, go away, go away.”

_I don’t want to lose my mind. It’s all I have. Please, just leave me alone._

_*_

“Is it auditory only or do you see things as well?”

It’s a psychiatrist this time. Christoph Stychien. A polish lad who looks like Jesus, the whole long hair, long beard shebang. Shave them off and he’d look the 20 years off he has to Tony’s age. A weird but surprisingly oriented bastard.

FRIDAY confirmed that he signed all the NDAs sent to him, doesn’t even bat an eye or ask why all those hassles for secrecy when Tony walked in for their first meeting. Just a straight forward, “Hello, I’m Christopher Stychien, you can call me Chris” to Tony’s “Tony Stark. Tony would do.”

Which was maybe why Tony managed to sit through the first fifteen minutes of general questionnaire, allergies? Family history? The whole medical clipboard ‘clearance’ question lists. Until Stychien asked, “So what brings you here, Mr Stark?” and Tony inhaled sharply surprising himself of how suddenly, when they finally get to the actual part of the real issue, he’s suddenly hesitant.

Stychien’s, “Mr Stark” is a mirror of FRIDAY’s “Boss” whenever Tony wakes up drenched in sweat in the middle of nights, which was why he relented and answered. “I’m hallucinating.”

“Visual too. One person. I see, hear him and everything.” Tony opens up.

It’s objective, he keeps reminding himself. Nothing but diagnosis and medication and getting better. He’s protected behind all the NDAs and the fact that he has no clue who the fuck Stychien is helps a bunch. No performance pressure. No judgement. Nothing to care about putting up a proper front. This is objective, he tells himself.

“This person, you’ve seen them before or -,”

“Know them.” Tony nods. Uncrosses his leg, crosses them back and he pulls off his shades. “At first it was just auditory…”

*

A new timetable forms from then on. Monday and Tuesday with SI, Friday’s movie nights and Wednesday afternoon’s psychiatrist appointment.

“What happened to this Parker boy?” Stychien asks, his long blonde hair is a reminiscent of the God of thunder except for his rivalling mass of facial hair.

Tony blinks and tries to think when he mentioned Peter in their conversation. Backtracks the last 30 minutes and he finds himself blank because he cannot fucking remember what they were talking about in the first place. Shit. He panics. Shit. He cannot remember what they’re talking about now.

He unclasps his hands, places them flat on his knee, let the moist seep through his jeans fabric. His pulse races beneath their points, jumping and he swallows thickly, clears his throat. “I’m sorry, what?”

Stychien’s gaze is steady on his, “What happened to Parker?” He repeats, as if there wasn’t a stuttering pause to their conversation that occurred where Tony panicked. Something tells Tony that Stychien knows. He knows, but he’s too wise to show. Wise or an asshat, either way –

“He’s in school. Boy’s a teen. That’s what they do. Go to school, have exams, date girls and all that.”

The small twitch to Stychien’s mouth is subtle but as good as any giveaway for Tony. “Is he?” Stychien cocks his head. “Dating?”

“How the hell would I know?” Tony balks, clammy hands stopped clamming and crossing over his chest defensively.

Stychien laughs. “I thought you took him under your wing, all that internship talk and all? Or were you just recruiting him for a one day battle?”

Something sinks in Tony’s chest. “Are you accusing me of using him?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Tony. I am simply asking if you keep in touch with Mr Parker after the battle, is all.”

*

Two day’s later, Tony knows that Peter Parker conducts secret experiments on his web slings in his school’s science lab, calls Happy daily to report his activities, spams him with texts, has a best friend who is also a nerd called Ned, and they both have stupid teen crushes on the school’s popular girl, Elizabeth Allan, who goes by Liz.

“Teenagers.” He groans when FRIDAY shows him a footage of Peter storming into a school corridor, panting after he said a meek ‘hi’ to Liz.

He asks FRIDAY to connect all of Peter’s texts and voicemails to him from then forth, passing through Happy first of course, or else he has to sit through hours of “why can’t you even trust me with a kid, Tony?” which is of course not the case here but Tony’s too annoyed to think of reasons behind every one of his actions.

“Queens.” Steve’s voice startles him. “He has a heart, that kid.”

Tony switches off the feed, flips through the screen until he comes to the nanotech armour he’s working on and pulls it out. He dives into the calculations, tapping in the new theories he came up with, enters for FRIDAY to assess the model while the enters different input to another similar model. Trials, trials.

“It’s beautiful, Tony.” Steve says when the model comes to life. The assembling of the nanoparticle still hitches and he has miles to go what with all the weapons he hasn’t installed to it, but, yes. For a first nanotech armour, it _is_ beautiful.

Tony stares at it for some time, the other model abandoned as he watches the holographic nano particles assembling and dissembling into iron man armour over and over until he realises that his hallucination is beginning to not only interact with him, but also to his environment now. Which is all in all, very alarming.


	7. stevetony - steve post cacw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my attempts at writing post cacw continues / heavy sigh /

_“You know the thing is, sometimes when I close my eyes, I can see his face.”_

It’s been about three months since Captain America adapted the fugitive identity. Two months since Bucky went into cryo and half a month since Steve Rogers started losing the plot.

_“Steve!”_

He hears Natasha calling. Jerking upright in his position on the ledge of a Wakandan window. “Yeah?”

The former spy gives an exhausted look. “I’ve been calling you for ages.” She sighs, pushing away at his ankles to make room for her on the ledge. Steve lets her, picking up the new colour she got going to suit her renewed status in the society. ‘ _I’m painted black by the world_ ,’ she had said, ‘ _I think_ _I’m gonna paint myself white in return_.’ It doesn’t look bad per say, but the stark white still throws him off guard sometimes.

“Staying put is wearing me down.” She confesses lightly, snatching away his sketchbook to peer at the drawings he made in there. It’s against Steve’s comfort, but Natasha has no regards for that so he’d stopped bothering after a few weak tries early in their ‘friendship’.

“I’ve been talking to Okoye.”

Oh. “You’ve taken a mission.”

Natasha glances at him, her thumb steadily flipping pages after pages of Steve’s sketchbook. “Not a mission exactly…,” She trails.

Steve swallows a lump that had formed at some point, turning away to look at the greenery laid before them. It’s a barren land. The south-east part of Wakanda is. The west has a large water fall Steve encountered in the first week of his stay, the south is where the city spreads out and the north is where the land begins.

He has spent three months here, doing nothing. Earlier, there was some discussion on damage control. Dealing with the battle-evidences in Germany and Siberia and then when T’challa insisted on taking charge, there had been nothing but ‘laying low’. And ‘laying low’ has been nothing but doing absolutely shit nothing.

“You’re right.” He sighs. Turning back to face Natasha. “We’re better off doing missions than sitting on our arse all day.”

Natasha smiles, but the inch missing out from her upturned lips is a subtle giveaway for someone who’d known he well. Like Clint. Like Steve.

“What?” He asks, although he thinks he has a good idea that this is not something he’s going to like. “Natasha.” He insists when she feigns ignorance.

He thumb finally stills and she closes the book with a snap. “You’re staying.” She says with a finality in her tone.

Steve’s stomach churns. “Why-,”

“I don’t think it’s wise for you to go on a mission now, Steve.” She continues. “You’re not in the state and _you_ know that.” Her eyes burns a hole in Steve’s ego. She’s right. He knows. But, knowing is different from hearing it out aloud. Much more from someone else than yourself.

He stares back in defiance. “I can handle myself, Nat.” He grits, out. He feels his fingers itch to clench into a fist. Feels the itch crawling up under his shirt to his neck and he’s torn between wanting to punch a wall and staying stoic.

This is not the first time someone has given him the look which Natasha’s giving him. She is not the first person who had done it either. And each time he encounters it, he feels an increasing urge to punch their faces. Because he’s Steve Rogers the Captain America dammit. Not Steve Rogers the 90 pounds five feet four scrawny fella with bad medical records, and it’s about time people stop pitying him.

“Steve.” Natasha calls. He realises by her look that he’s been spacing out again and he clenches his fingers, digging nails painfully into his palm to keep him grounded. This is getting out of his hand.

She doesn’t say another word. Simply sits in silence until the sun finish setting and she places the sketchbook over where she sat as she takes her leave.

The next day, when he frantically asks for Natasha, Shuri lays a hand on his shoulder and tells him that she’s with Okoye. On a mission.

“Do you need anything, Captain?” The young girl asks, her voice softer than when she teases her brother, Steve’s seen it. Softer than when she talks to Okoye, Steve’s heard it. Softer than when she speaks with Natasha, Steve’s been there too.

“No.” Steve breathes out. “No.” His heart still hammering from the panic of thinking maybe something horrible had happened to take Natasha away from him. “I thought-,” He begins, but unable to finish as he directs his gaze to the floor beneath his feet, shame welling up in him.

The hand over his arm squeezes and Steve almost crumbles from how ridiculous it all is. Him, the bigger guy. Him, the Captain. Him, the Avenger who’d taken an oath to protect the earth and its occupant. Him, an adult, being consoled by a fragile looking teenage girl who looks like the wind may blow her but Steve knows deep within that Shuri is nothing but fragile. She’s nothing but a warrior of every worth but still, it hurts when it hurts and he’s helpless against it.

“I understand, Captain.” Shuri says, thrusting a cup of tea into his hand when she’s convinced Steve to accompany her in the lab. “When I turned 16, I stole a ship and flew to Korea for my birthday countdown. I was caught within an hour of my arrival there and brought back but that’s not the point. The point is that, when I was there - even one hour - I was in an unknown territory with unknown language and every one there was… Different. It was shocking and I felt terribly alone. Even for that single hour I called for my freedom. Now, I wouldn’t admit this loudly to anyone, but I was actually grateful that they found me.”

When Steve avoids her eyes, focusing on sipping his tea, she adds, “I can only imagine how it is for you, here. With your best friend in cryo and now Natasha’s on a mission…,” She hums thoughtfully. “Say what! How about you just hang around here with me. I’m not white, but I speak English and I’m way cooler than my brother?”

When she put it that way. Her big mouth stretched in a warm wide grin and her bony shoulder shrugging like the Nickelodeon cartoon characters Steve sometimes sketches, he huffs a laugh.

“It’s okay, Shuri.” He declines. “I’m alright.”

And then, there’s that look again. Sympathy. This time, on Shuri’s face and Steve can’t punch her so he walks away.

When Natasha returns, three days later, she’s grinning from ear to ear. There’s a private joke between her and Okoye and she spends less time reflecting and more time humming. Steve on the other hand, has filled 120 pages of a book with nonsensical sketches and made a single call filled with a lengthy ‘I told you, I’d rather stay but you sent me to babysit Wanda and now I’m third-wheeling her and Vision’ lecture from Sam.

“Vision?” Steve had asked. One word filled to brim with endless questions which Sam seems to hear over the static of their horrible connection.

“Yeah, Cap.” Sam murmurs, his previous ecstatic voice toned down several notches. “Stark-,” He seems to stop himself, before clearing his throat and picking back, “Tony’s taken over the mentor duty apparently. Whatever that means. He’s focused more on his company and tech and less on Avenger. Rhodes seems to be leading the stuffs there and between two of them, Vision and whomever else there with them are given generous liberty. In fact, Vision says he’s only reporting because he said and I quote ‘he feels the sense of duty’ but if you ask me, I think it’s the JARVIS in him speaking.”

“Oh.” Steve had said, but that didn’t at all summarize how he actually felt to hear what Sam had said. To hear about the compound again. To hear about…

“Did you do anything productive while I was gone?” Natasha asks, pulling away from her one armed hug. Steve picks at one stray blonde strand stuck on her cheek, pushing it behind her ears. His heart sings with relief now that she’s here and damn, he hadn’t realized how much he had missed her.

“Laundry.” He shrugs, willingly handing the sketchbook over when she goes for it. Natasha quirks an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t prod, gladly accepting and flipping from page one again. Although she’s been through the first page numerous times throughout a year she’s been stealing the book from Steve.

“I should have given you mine.” She muses, pausing at the eleventh page like she usually does. It’s a sketch of a monkey riding a monocyle which he made in the 40s. The graphite on the page smudged out from decades of abandonment, sitting in Howard’s vault until Steve returned.

“I did yours.” Steve murmurs, watching her face carefully as her thumb slips on the next page and she looks up at him. “Why, thank you househusband.” She tips an inexistent hat to which Steve gives a full bellied laugh.

“Did you call Sam?” She asks after - 120 pages over and the book back on its owner’s lap. Steve picks it up, just to keep his hands occupied. “I did.”

Natasha eyes him carefully as she prods, “What did he say?”

If Steve actually thinks about it, he could answer that question with anything; from Sam’s third-wheeling to Vision and Wanda’s new relationship development or even the bad static throughout their call because Sam chose a fucking bush by the road to answer Steve’s call. But he didn’t think, therefore he spits out the one thing that has been sitting at the front of head since that call.

“Tony’s not actively avenging now.” He says. “He handed it over to Colonel Rhodes apparently.”

Natasha’s startled enough by the news to give an actual physical reaction. She blinks. “Oh. I thought Rhodes…,” She trails off, and guilt sears sharply within Steve’s chest, he winces.

Natasha places a careful hand over Steve’s bent kneecap. Lightly touching and exerting no pressure. Steve wills himself to smile but what makes out is a grimace. “I know.” She hums and Steve wants to yell, _No, you don’t! No, you don’t because it’s not the same._

But he keeps quiet and stares at a random page on the open book. It’s a sketch of a room. Of a large sofa and TV and coffee table and the room belonged in the compound. The bottom of the page says it was 20th April 2014.

“How are you?” Natasha asks tentatively. Voice a measured control, not too loud, not too quiet and he tone is almost flat but it’s still laced with the right amount of concern to not tip him off. Steve shrugs. Flipping to another page and more drawings from the compound assaults him so he gives up, snapping the book shut and turning away to glare at the green grass, letting the sketchbook fall into the gap between the window and his thigh.

Natasha persists. “You know I feel guilty too, Steve. If Tony’s mad, between you and me, it’s more at me than you.” She declares confidently. Steve barks out a bitter laugh, because he wishes, alright.

“You don’t know him, Nat-,”

“Think I know him longer than you do.” Natasha rises up in a challenge.

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” He says.

“Well then, I think it high well the time for you to finally explain, don’t you?”

Her vicious tone makes Steve whip his head to her. Studying the uncharacteristic lines between her brows and the tight stretch of her lips as they quiver when her jaw clenches periodically. He goes through all the possible reasons that could explain her anger towards him. He thinks of the accord first, but remembers how after Peggy’s funeral, she had brushed it off. He thinks it’s Bucky then, but knew that she wouldn’t have attacked T’challa if she hadn’t understood. Unless…

When she found him and Bucky at Wakanda, from a generous tip-off, courtesy of T’challa. At first, they were both rightfully suspicious of one another. Tip-toeing around each other like they were strangers, until a week passed with Bucky in cryo and Steve requesting Sam to keep an eye on Wanda because she insisted on getting away _even just a for a while, please._ Then, it was like Shuri had said. Two old friends with a newly developed trust issues, stuck in a foreign land with foreign people and it had been too lonely that they had put aside whatever that was keeping them from each other and clung onto the only familiar thing they both knew. Their friendship.

But that didn’t mean the actual issue- whatever it was- had been overcame. “You’re mad at me.” He states dumbly. He feels like they’re back to that day when Natasha first arrived in Wakanda. As if the last two months were never there and the wound which Steve could never guess the location of but had scabbed over is now exposed and bleeding again.

“You never told me what went on in Siberia.” She breathes. Taking a deep inhale after. It’s a millisecond of difference. From that pained expression to that poker face Natasha Romanov is known for. “When Tony left Rhodey in the hospital, he left without a word. But I bugged into his system and found out where he was heading and I thought-,” She pauses, he eyes fluttering shut as she takes another deep breath in and Steve aches from seeing her struggle through getting this anonymity of her chest. “I thought, you’ll finish those Hydra soldiers and find a common ground and that we all will be back together again. Like old times.”

When Steve opens his mouth to interrupt, she holds up a hand. Silencing him. “I know that wouldn’t be possible, Steve. Considering the number of rules we broke. But we both know. In fact, I think we all know that the real fight here was not about the accords. That ultimately, the real shit was between Tony and you, and I thought for one second, when Tony went to Siberia, that once you both had overcome whatever it was between you two, it will all be alright. Fuck rules and accords because we all know that Tony would be here regardless if it wasn’t for something horrible had happened and it had, hadn’t it, Steve? Something bad went down in Siberia that day and now, we’re all torn apart.”

Steve always thought that spies were moulded from all the tortures they were put through, and all that had destroyed whatever ounce of humanity resided within them. And in Steve’s eyes, Natasha had always been the best of them, through all the decades and all the battles he’d been in, her capabilities had always astounded him. Hence, when he saw her eyes glimmer with unshed tears, it shook the very ground he stood on.

“Nat,” He begins. She blinks, giving him a watery smile, and she says, “When I heard he was back, he was admitted in the hospital. They had securities all around him. I wanted to ask him what happened, I wanted to know, at what cost. But I couldn’t get through and at that point, they announced a hunt for my head; dead or alive and I knew my only other option was you. So I reached out for T’challa and I found you. I wanted to ask you then, but you were bust with Barnes, so I asked Sam. Sam told me what he knew and personally I’m not willing to believe that he knows all the truth. So here I am again, Steve. Asking you after two months of trying to move on but I need to know. I have to know because I can’t ignore but feel like I’ve been robbed off something so close to me and it fucking hurt.”

“Tell me what happened between you and Tony, Steve.” Natasha demands, and Steve complies.

He tells her everything.

Tells her how he hid about the details of Tony’s parents’ death from Tony. Tells her, how he told Tony that he was really trying to protect himself from the hurt whilst keeping Tony away from it. He tells her, how betrayed Tony had looked. He tells her how he couldn’t control his own hands from hitting Tony when Tony had started attacking Bucky. How everything was red and for a terrifying moment in Siberia, he lost sight of Tony. He tells her how hard he slammed the shield on Tony’s arc reactor. Tells her that he wasn’t trying to murder, _‘I just wanted it to stop,_ ’ and that he’s fucked it all up and lost Tony for once and for all.

Sometimes after, when the Wakandan sun douse them both in a bright orange glow, Steve murmurs dazedly, “You know the thing is, sometimes when I close my eyes, I can see his face.”

He tells her how he sometimes thinks Tony would love Shuri and the Wakandan tech. Muses how Tony would look in the orange glow in the sun, then he remembers and amends that Tony looks best in the blue glow of his workshop. He tells her how he once tried the green gunk DUM-E makes because Tony dared him. Tells her how sometimes, when he cannot sleep in the night, he likes to sit in Tony’s workshop and watch him work. He comes close to telling her how during one of those sleepless nights, Tony and he had almost kissed. He didn’t tell her how the next night, Steve went back to the workshop with the sole purpose of kissing Tony. He couldn’t tell her how that night was the beginning of all ends for both Tony and him. Wouldn’t want to think of how stupid he had been, when Tony said he’d give up everything for Steve, Steve had said, _‘this is wrong. This is a mistake.’_ Because despite the way his heart ached so beautifully when he had kissed Tony, he also couldn’t help but feel like he had dived right into sin.

He doesn’t tell how Tony almost became Steve’s if not for Steve running away from him.


	8. steve & bucky - post endgame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently i too, tried to fix endgame

James is on the way to his room - third flight of stairs from the ground and sure, they’ve got elevator now but sometimes, climbing sings to his bones – when the sound of glasses clinking makes him pause in his steps and take an unplanned detour, feet letting his ears lead the way.

“Does it work, now?” He asks, when he’d found the source.

Steve pauses, the rim of the whiskey glass brushing his lips and it’s still unbelievable as the day one he saw this version of his decade old best friend. Shrivelled skin, bent spine, croaky voice, wearing tremor like a second skin.

If it wasn’t for the stone-headedness, James would have had his doubts. But there he is. Old and alone, on a leather chair nursing alcohol on a new year’s eve.

“Hey, Buck.” He smiles, the tremor of his lip makes bitterness seep into James’s own.

He takes a deep breath and enters the room. No one should be alone on a new year’s eve; it’s a thing his mama used to say. _‘Bad luck for the soul.’_ Neither does James believes in luck nor soul after all that happened, but it had become a thing just because his mama said it and it happened to be one of the few things he remembered of her.

“You gonna pour me one?” He dumps himself on the window sill. Body turned halfway to face both Steve and the vast lake framing the compound.

Cold glasses brushes his elbow and he jerks himself out of the hypnotizing ripple of water under the full moonlight.

“It’s a pretty sight.” Steve smirks knowingly. The glint of his blue eyes overshadowed by excessive crinkles surrounding them. “I wanted to paint ‘em.” He confesses, dropping his head, a humourless chuckle reverberating through the room.

James let the aroma of aged whiskey seep through his olfactory nerves, blinking back the tears that form from the sting. “What stopped you?” He asks conversationally, taking a sip and letting the malt melt into his taste buds.

Steve answers with a lopsided smile of his. Just like he has been doing since he came back aged from the time travel. James watches him take a gulp down his own drink, topping up the empty glass with a quarter more. Steve’s Bucky would have been worried with the rate the amber sinks in its bottle, but James has no shits left to give. He takes another sip.

Steve never stopped calling him Buck or Bucky. James doesn’t stop him although he no longer resonates with that name anymore. It’s okay, it’s fine. Name is not everything after all.

Bucky or not, he remembers Steve just like he remembers his mama. Just like the winter’s cold of the 30s. Semantics, is what he came to conclude.

Bucky, James; semantics.

“Remember that building we used to hang out around after school?” Steve reminisces, eyes faraway as if he’s somewhere else. Maybe with his Bucky, James muses privately. Steve doesn’t wait for his answer. “I couldn’t find it when I went back.”

James blinks, tasting chalk in his tongue _. So we’re doing this now,_ he thinks. Clutches his glass tightly and takes a long sip, letting the burn sink deep into his throat and spread throughout his chest.

Steve never talked about what happened when he went back. It was by mutual respect that no one prodded him for answers, kept him hidden in the compound, faked his death. The whole hoo ha that came with top-notch secrecy.

Two years passed like that. People bought it, the world believed. They accepted Sam with title, respected him the same way they once did Steve with his shield.

Two years with increasing suspicions and growing laundry list of questions whenever James and Sam find Steve moping around in the compound. Initially they thought, what with Steve’s success in keeping his own identity in the dark for decades, he would have had somewhere to go to. But that was proven wrong. Then, when nobody came to find him, their curiosity began itching.

What actually has Steve been up to, all those years. Besides getting married. Children? A family? Job?

When they began restocking the alcohol cabinet, even more questions began to pile up.

One on top of another. For two solid years. But neither James nor Sam asked. James, because he’s all too familiar with the whole ‘not ready to answer that’ shenanigans. While Sam, maybe because he’s dealt with a bunch of veterans and maybe patience comes plastered with that monstrous shield. Either way, Steve never opened his mum until now.

“I asked the local. They said it went down with the war.”

James hops off his window sill and refilled his own glass. He switched seat, opting for the ottoman across Steve, separated by the coffee table in between them. Steve acknowledge none of that. Blue eyes still faraway as he smiles sadly to himself.

James knocked back the whiskey in a single shot, pouring another round without a pause. He needs that mead from space if he’s going through this shit.

“I kept my promise with Peggy.” Steve continues. As if he’s on some kind of auto format, set to spill all his dirty secret when the date crosses 31 in the month of December.

James sits and listen. Doesn’t know what the fuck Steve promised. Doesn’t know who the fuck Peggy is other than the girl Steve carries her picture of in his compass. But he sits and he watches as Steve comes back to his surroundings.

Watches as he looks longingly at the alcohol in his hand and tips the glass back until the only amber there, is the ring at its bottom. He picks up the bottle and fills in another round when Steve leans for it.

James watches as Steve swirls than one, round and round. Blue eyes shining from the glimmer of the moonlight outside and he watches as Steve slips back out of his reality again. Eyes glazed and mouth tipped slightly at its corner, a perpetual frown resting on his face.

“I thought she was the one. I was wrong, Buck.”


	9. buckytony - shave (nsfw-ish)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is sloppy blergh

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.” He says.

James watches as he takes a step in, one foot in front of another and it’s not very obvious but James has been watching and he sees the tiny mound along Tony’s long throat bob up then down before he takes another step. Closing in on his fear as if he’s been waiting to do this for so long but have only found enough courage for it now.

James spreads his thighs out, the stool scrapes on the tiled floor of the bathroom and he closes his eyes as the screech echoes through the confined room. When he opens them, Tony’s in between his thighs, long lithe body straight as an arrow as he holds up the razor, little tremor from his fingers almost invisible. Almost.

“You _really_ don’t have to do this.” James rasps out, swallowing the lump that lodged itself in his throat, his own fingers beginning to shake and he curls them into fists atop his kneecaps.

The mound moves again and this time, James’s sensitive hearing picks on the sound it makes; just like the one that he did when he swallows and he waits for Tony to back out, walk away as he should but he opens his pretty mouth and he says against all odd; “I _really_ want to do this” and James cannot stop his hands from jumping to Tony’s hips and pulling him so close, he can breathe in the arousal bleeding within tight denim pants.

He props his chin on soft stomach, bore his eyes into liquid amber until it glints under the setting sunlight and Tony places his mouth on his forehead, presses until James closes his eyes and grips him tighter before loosening his hold with a muted “okay.”

It was a jerky start. Tony almost nicks the skin beneath his ear lobe, but he’s a quick learner, picking up within seconds and it was almost like he’d been doing this for ages and James only his 108th client. Neither was true; the 108th part nor the client part, but it James entertained that line of thought anyway.

Idly wondering how he would have looked in the 30s, in the barber shop and James is almost sure he’d run south instead of marching north the instance he set his eyes on Tony because no matter what the decade maybe, something tells him that he’d be losing his heart to this fella between his legs, whether he makes the run or not.

In that terms, he feels like he lucked out. 21st century and all the leniency and acceptance that come with it make loving another man easier than it would have been in the age plagued by depression and just for that, sometimes, in the veil of his own thoughts, James think he’d risk being captured by Hydra all over again. If it only means that he’d wound up by Tony’s feet at the end of it all. Just for Tony, he’d risk everything and all. All over and over again.

And he knows that if he says these all out loud, he’d hurt Tony. So he keeps this mum, just one more in his vault of self-deprecating thoughts. Only that it feels less like self-deprecating the more and more he revisits it, almost like something natural. Something engraved into his bones like lines of prophecy that reads; _one shall be broken over and over again into many fragments of pain and loss in order to meet the other who shall wield the power to fix it all._

Some fucked up prophecy, sure. But the masochist part of him, thrives from it.

“How’re you doing?” Tony’s murmur brushes away some of the thinner strands of hair bracketing his face, pulling him back to the bathroom, with warm knees brushing against his clothed thighs, brown eyes soft within frame of long lashes and for the umpteenth time since James escaped captivity, he’s reminded that reality can be beautiful too.

He doesn’t open his mouth, keeping lips sealed tight. Instead, he cocks his head a little to left, blinks as Tony pauses in his action and he makes a grab for that hand with the razor in its clasp, bringing it to his mouth and plants a kiss against jutting knuckles. Letting his lips curl up into a smirk when Tony’s breath hitches and he shudders under James’s gaze.

Slowly, he directs back the hand with its razor back to his jaw. Steel-blue eyes challengingly holding liquid brown in place, the closer he brings the metal until it hits the jut of his jaw and Tony inhales sharply, pupils widening, pushing out the amber of his pretty eyes. He stops it there, neither pressing or pushing and his own flesh fingers stay curled around Tony’s, thumb brushing against the jumping pulse in a dare.

Tony gulps, the closing and opening snap of his organ teasing like a popping of a bottle cap to James’s ears. But he doesn’t back down. His wide blown pupil rivalling James’s in their challenge as he guides the razor along James’ sharp jaw, catching at the patches that he missed during the first round, swiping clean until all stubbles are gone and it’s really a huge testament to his capability to be able to master the skill in one sitting to the point where he can do it even while being heavily distracted by one teasing super soldier.

“You’re in a mood.” He remarks later over the sink, rinsing the sharp blade of the razor clean of hair and foam while James wipes at his clean shaven jaw.

He snorts humourlessly. “You’re on to talk.” He keeps his voice low, letting the rumble reverberate through his chest, metal finger looping through the waistline of Tony’s jean, tugging gently as waits and watches if he’ll be entertained in his quest for this madness he feel swirling deep within his guts.

It’s been half a year and little more since James started gambling his chances against all the odds, finally caving under the crashing waves of wants and affection that wash through him every time he comes across one Tony Stark in his day to day vernacular. He started small. Humour that transcended into suggestive remarks, aching flirtatious ones that kept him wide awake past midnight.

Then one day, he suddenly forgot to crawl and he crowded Tony against his workshop wall, kissed through his shock, swapped saliva under heady air until he remembered who he was, where he was and with whom he was but damn it, he was not going to apologize for kissing Tony so he squared his shoulders and asked him out for their first of many dates.

That was four months and three dates ago.

It wasn’t that James didn’t try but most times than not, his date plans always got interrupted by the fucking Avengers alarm and one time they came close to driving out of the garage before Tony shot him an apologetic look and redoubled to his workshop where he stored his armours. James didn’t let him go before he stuck his tongue down his throat and called a ‘next time’ with ferocity that sent shiver up Tony’s spine as he too, eventually walked out of the garage and into his room for his own battle gear.

The next time didn’t happen soon enough because Ms Potts had a propensity to pour bucket of cold water on James’s hope by calling Tony out for board meetings and other corporate shits that James began suspecting if it was all her deliberate effort to keep Tony away from James.

He was proven correct when Tony admits one evening that maybe Ms Potts has her own reservation when it comes to James. Tony didn’t say it but the way he shot a quick glance at James’s metal arm told him that maybe it wasn’t James that Ms Potts is severe on, maybe it was his alter-ego; the winter soldier.

“I’m not like that anymore.” He frowned down at the popcorn in the bowl. Blinked when Tony kisses his cheek and said, “Of course you’re not. I know that.” Then get entirely distracted by the way he kissed a little closer to James’s lips and what more invitation did he need to pin Tony down on couch and suck on his tongue until he pants into James’s mouth.

But that’s all that they were. Kisses and make outs. Heck, they didn’t even make it to petting, what more a quick rub down the hallway and suddenly, in that confined space of a bathroom attached to James’s room in one multimillionaire tower that belongs to Tony, they feel all that unresolved tension closing in all at one.

It’s like the walls are moving in from every corner and angle and the air gets stuffy as Tony follows his tugging, water dripping their last drops into the ceramic sink as he stumbles willingly into James’s space. Wet calloused hands presses up his bare chest when James tugs him harder into him. A torn, “James” coming out in hot breath that blows at his temple.

Swallowing thickly, he presses his face into Tony’s clothed abdomen, feeling the smooth Polo tickling his cheek and he pulls at the material with his flesh hand circled around Tony’s waist, as if all his tension seeped down to his limbs and he can do nothing but make a fist around something to keep himself grounded to Tony.

He pulls at the shirt until its taught. He feels Tony card fingers through his hair as he noses up Tony’s torso, nuzzling into the warmth, letting his scent cloud him in until he cannot remember anything but Tony and Tony only.

“James.” Tony whispers. But it’s not a call, not something he waits for answer. Just his name like it’s something he has to say just for the sake of it. Like a mantra and it feels so fucking good to James’s ears. So fucking good when Tony coaxes his metal arm from his waist to press down his fingers until they form a fist. So fucking good when Tony kisses the knuckles of that fist and unfurl the fingers to press the palm against his warm cheek.

“C’mere.” James croaks, surprised at hearing himself sound so broken in the wake of something so beautiful. But he forgets all about that as soon as he feels Tony’s weight settle atop him, clothed erection pressing into his bare navel as Tony shudder on his lap.

James pulls him closer, kissing the closed eyelids and watching as another shudder breaks through the man. He relishes in the extra weight, in the way Tony’s so close to him, their chests meet and it’s nothing unfamiliar from the number of times they’d made out but the barrier that usually feels so palpable between them is no longer there and something tells James that Tony knows of this and yet, by the way he’s straddling James’s lap, hips rolling just barely, he clearly has no problem with it.

Nonetheless, a consent is where a consent needed so James asks seriously, “Is it okay if we go all the way in?”

“Yes.” Tony blurts out, blinking in surprise at his own rapid response perhaps but that was all James needed to throw all caution into the air and lung for that pretty mouth of his, swallowing in tiny gasps and breathing into it until his head’s spinning in circle in its conscience.

Tony kisses him back just as unreservedly. Opening his mouth for James’s probing tongue, welcoming and sucking when James gets a little too dizzy under his spell. It’s a wet, heady thing. Eager mouth on another eager mouth, kissing like they’re trying to prove something, and maybe they are. Maybe James is determined to make Tony feel so good he feel out of this world and judging by the way Tony reciprocate, he seems as resolute as well.

Pulling back when the air ran out of his lungs, James opens his eyes, unable to point out the exact moment he closed him but he’s not alone, although Tony’s remained closed. A giddy looking lopsided smile pulling up at the corner of his mouth just like they always do when James gives him one mind-blowing kiss.

Receiving that look, especially during that fragile moment, makes James choke back an avalanche of emotion. Just knowing that he could have such an effect on this gorgeous man he’s so reverent about, could build a shrine for, matter of fact he already did, in the cave where his heart used to reside before he fell and broke his mind.

Sucking in air through his teeth, he brings trembling fingers up, brushing a long cold metallic line from the corner of Tony’s still-closed eyes down to the edge of his jaw, thumb pausing to press at the pulse on his throat before he swallows thickly and redirect his curious trigger finger to the pair of swelled pink mound he teases tentatively with the pads of metal fingers.

He hears the hitch in Tony’s inhale, feels it echoing into his own clenching windpipe like an infectious thing when Tony boldly swipes his tongue out, amber eyes flying open to hold James’s blue in captive as brushes it against one of James’s finger pads.

The result of that is like a shot straight through his brain, shot-wiring every one of his logic conscience tearing out a guttural groan out of his chest for warning. But that death-wish in Tony must be acting up because he graduates from licking to full on sucking that trigger finger into his mouth and James jerks up. Extra hundred over pounds like nothing to wear him down as he hefts it up by jeans clad ass, flesh hand pulling thick thigh to wrap around his hip as he walks them both out of the bathroom, the need for a bed like a thirst after being stranded in dessert for days.

The flare of panic in Tony’s eyes dies down as quickly as it came when he catches on what James’s up to, then it’s all screaming excitement and nervousness when James carefully places him on the bed, bouncing slightly as he follows like a joined limb, hot breath fanning all over his face, messing up his train of thoughts but James is alright with that. He thinks Tony can handle him, all thoughtless, all care discarded at the foot of the bed.

And he’s right. Tony’s there to catch him when he gives under his jelly knees and collapses atop him, face hitting clothed abdomen but he’s not that much gone yet cause his fingers start prying that shirt off of that skin. He wants. He wants so much and so soon and knowing that Tony is willing to give all that does so many things to him, he wants to both cry and laugh in glee.


	10. out of reach (stuckony) - alternate ?ending 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to those who have read out of reach, you may recognize the turning points. ;)
> 
> this one is after tony's convo with rhodey and he returns to the tower.

At least the lump on the couch tells him where Bucky is, although Steve’s whereabout is still a mystery (which he can easily solve by asking FRIDAY but he’s not really… excited about seeing Steve after what he’d done, so maybe later).

He pauses heavily one holo-table away from the couch. Nerves pitter pattering, wondering how his reappearance will be received – if his absence had even been noted, which must have been, since Bucky is in his workshop and all, really –

“You gonna just stand stupid there?” The lump startles him. Or, Bucky. Still wrapped and facing away from Tony and he didn’t even move but – there it is.

“That’s just plain creepy.” He breathes, taking a step forward and another until he’s seated on the coffee table in front of the couch, fingers itching to push aside the fuzzy blanket and run through softer hair and warm skin.

But he’s a coward. Had always been when it comes to relationships and people he cares because he got fuck ton on insecurities and it has been four decades living with it.

“What’s creepy is you watching me sleep.”

Tony snorts. “Not so creepy when you’re not really asleep is it.”

The lump finally moves, brown messy tangle of hair peeking out first, then murderous stormy grey eyes that shoot death glare that’s so familiar to him and Tony feels himself crack and chuckle.

When he looks up, Bucky’s glare has soften up and now he’s propped up, blanket thrown over his shoulder as he hunched forth, knees almost brushing Tony’s – damn he’s sneaky. “You left.” He says, trapping Tony’s vocal cord at once. “You didn’t say a word. You just – Left.”

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Tony puts up a grin and falters, deciding enough is enough. He’s done with masks and hiding and wasn’t that what he agreed with Rhodey? That he’d give himself a chance?

“I did.” He admits, reaching out a hand, tentative, expecting Bucky to pull away but when the man simply follows the motion with a blank stare, Tony – his fingers, shakes, for fuck’s sake! – lays it atop of Bucky’s thigh, just above his knee cap, right beneath the holster and tries for a squeeze. “Sorry.”

 _Won’t happen again,_ gets stuck in his throat. He doesn’t know if he can afford promises, yet.

Tony watches as Bucky sucked in his lower lip to gnaw at while he contemplates and before long, he puts a hand on top of Tony’s and flips it palm side up, running long, abnormally pretty fingers up and in between his own so they intertwine and he cusps them altogether.

Tony remembers faintly that while he’d vocally rejected Steve, he’d literally left Bucky hanging by the thread, with no answers, just a series of desperate ‘I can’t’. Especially after that night in the kitchen and now, his heart is picking up from where it had left.

“Steve.” He says, before he loses his sensibilities completely. “You should talk with Steve.” Because while Tony speaks to both of them, and them to Tony, neither Steve nor Bucky had actually begun to talk to each other. Well, apart from the silent communication and impromptu odd angled cossying up on the couch and stilted, stubborn conversation, they’re yet to sit and talk and reconcile.

At least, as far as Tony knew, they hadn’t.

“I do talk with Steve.” Bucky grunts, tracing the lines on Tony’s palm with one delicate finger. “He’s a punk.” He shrugs as if that’s obvious.

“Yeah, like that explains everything.” Tony snorts. “Look. You like me. Steve likes me too. You and Steve have histories together, so it’s only wise that you both sit and talk it out before you two come at me, you know.” Tony gives a mild squeeze when Bucky wedges his thumb in the web between his fingers.

Bucky intertwines their fingers together again, clasping them securely and giving a squeeze. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Who’d you like?” He deadpanned.

“Oh.” Tony straightens up. “I, er, well. I like both of you.” He shudders when Bucky brings their clasped hands up to kiss Tony’s knuckles, a smug smirk widening up along his pretty lips. “Won’t mean anything if you both refuse to talk it out, though?” He wiggles his hand away from Bucky’s grasp. Gazing at him apologetically.

“Why not?” Bucky frowns.

“Because I don’t want to come in between the two of you. I don’t want to be that stick in the mud. It’s either the three of us, or nothing.”

“The three of us.”

“Yeah, the three of us. Like Steve suggested? It’s called polyamory. A romantic -,”

“Steve suggested?”

Tony harrumphs. “You’re not going to understand anything better by repeating what I said. So go. Talk with Steve and then if you agree with him, like his idea, then we can give it a try. But first I need to know where you and Steve stand because you both got this weird thing going on which doesn’t really make any sense to me and I’m afraid that we –,”

“Stevie and I are easy.” Bucky interrupts.

“Easy?”

A shrug. “Easy.”

Tony closes his eyes to stop the urge to roll his eyes so hard right then. “That makes absolutely no sense!” He fixes Bucky with a glare.

The bastard sniggers. Pleased that he’d managed to trick Tony into something and Tony squeezes the hand in his just as hard, wishing it hurt even when he knew that it would take lot more than his squishy strength to put a dent to the Winter Soldier.

But Bucky gladly plays with it, going as far as acting out a surprised pained look and gasping ‘ow, ow, ow’. Tony doesn’t know if no reaction at all would have been better than this, but he’s yet again interfered mid-thought when Bucky uses his strength to tug him off the coffee table and onto the couch beside him.

More like, half onto. Because the other half of Tony ends up over Bucky’s thick thigh and oh god, Tony’s really trying not to think about that now.

Not the moment. Not the moment. Not –

But Bucky has a different idea entirely – flesh hand creeping beneath Tony’s thigh, where his legs meet his butt – dear, lord – and he lifts Tony’s easily, oh so easily that it’s embarrassing, so Tony’s shifted to sit wholly on Bucky’s lap.

A shudder wrecks down Tony’s spine and he flushes so hard. Behind him, Bucky chuckles. Hair breadth away and his hot breath fans over the nape of Tony’s neck so deliciously, it’s hypnotizing. He’s alluring in a dangerous kind of way. Something about him screams reckless and _wrong_ but the fact that he’s so right is like decadence wrapped in sin and Tony is a weak, weak man.

“You wanna see how easy Stevie and I can be?” And Tony almost moans from how close and raw he sounds in Tony’s left ear. The hand under his thigh staying while the metal circles around his midriff and gives a small push so Tony sticks plush against hard plank of muscular torso.

Damn, super soldier.

“Is that a yes?” His metal fingers plays against the ladder of Tony’s ribs and Tony slumps, going lax, head tilting so far to lean onto Bucky’s left shoulder.

There’s a sharp inhale and Bucky goes completely tense under him that Tony has to roll his head – god, are they so close, he could count the pores on Bucky Barnes’ pretty face – and ask, “What’s wrong?” Because Bucky looks blank. Like – whited out, blank.

And that’s disconcerting, so Tony regretfully extracts himself from him to twist around and address the man with concern. “Buckaroo?”

Bucky seems to snap back to presence. And when he does, he jerks so hard that Tony slips from his lap but the man isn’t a trained ex assassin for only name sake. His quick reflex almost deceives Tony – making him wonder if he ever so much as actually slip or was that all in his head – as he readjusts Tony back to his position and buries his head in between Tony’s shoulder blades.

Tony swallows against dry throat. He’s thinking of what to say so he doesn’t accidentally offend Bucky when the glass door opens to reveal a flustered looking Steve, who upon spotting the both of them, freezes in his spot.

Tony does too. Even if in his head, he’s already scrambling to stand up and explain why he’s on Bucky’s – Steve’s Bucky – lap. But in reality, he’s a deer caught in the headlight. It’s Bucky who moves first.

Carefully shifting Tony to deposit him on the couch as he stands up, marching with purpose towards Steve who’s still frozen and grabbing onto his shoulders before he cups one of Steve’s cheek, leaning in and he says something faintly that sounds like, “I missed you, punk,” before he’s kissing the stunned Captain smack on the mouth.

It’s different. Being the one being kissed by Bucky and watching him kiss someone else.

He seems to reserve the coaxing and the slight gentleness for Tony. While with Steve, it’s _raw_. Like riding a bicycle; jumping back on flawlessly as if there was never a break and Steve – Tony’s been kissed by Steve, the soft, supple way, but dear lord – he just throws all caution in the air when it comes to Bucky. No coaxing needed. Just a point blank starvation from his part, for the love he’d thought he had lost all this while. And Steve is apparently not so shy to claim what he wants when it comes to Bucky Barnes.

Seeing that, Tony gets it. What Bucky meant when he said, Steve and him are easy.

He waits for the rotten taste of being left out to crawl back onto his tongue. But he catches Steve’s gaze – fierce and determined, all wrapped in one huge cloud of lust – and all he can feel is arousal creeping up his lower belly. He shudders.

There are several pauses in the lip locking session. Not too long, but to catch breath maybe – if super soldiers even need any – or maybe just so they can let their mouths wander elsewhere – jaw, cheek, the stripe of skin behind their ears, down their neck. So, Tony cannot really pin point when exactly Bucky says – whispers – something too faint for his mortal ears to catch on, but he sees the way Steve halts to a stop. Too abruptly, even as Bucky stays glued to him, teeth nibbling his ear and hands crawling up his body, all over. Tony wants to be there too. Under Bucky’s hands or to be Bucky’s hands? Doesn’t really matter. He just – wants.

Then Steve leans back in, melting under Bucky’s fingertips as if burned and he tilts his head to whisper something and then they’re parting so Steve could walk up to Tony – all the time while his blue eyes sharply focused on Tony and Tony alone.

He glances over at Bucky who’s in the midst of wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and he smirks when he catches Tony’s eyes. Tony averts his gaze, focusing back on Steve who’s now at the edge of the couch – just how fast did he walk? – and he’s clamping all over. Frozen, but aching and at the same time, he’s fucking nervous as hell.

But when Steve sits on the coffee table and leans in to take his face in his big broad hands, Tony crumbles.

All tense strings snapping and recoiling as he shudders and collapses into Steve’s arms, breathing, “Sorry. Sorry I – I just – I’m so sorry, Steve, I -,” his breath hitches in places and he struggles to say something. Explain himself rather than simply repeating the same word but he just, can’t.

“Shhh.” Steve thumbs at the apple of his cheek. “It’s okay. I was worried but Nat told me where you were and hey, it’s fine. It’s okay.” He smiles so serenely, locking eyes with Tony’s – blue, bright and clear as they peer up from thick line of dark lashes and Tony aches.

“I want.” He mumbles into Steve’s shoulder – shivering from the feel of warm huge hands running up and down his back oh, so slowly. “The whole polyamory thing. I want to give it a try. If it’s not to late, that is?” He pulls away reluctantly to look at the other man and Steve seizes that opportunity to hold his face in place again. Tilting Tony’s head slightly so he can look straight into his eyes, “It’s not late. It’s never late, Tony. Gosh, you don’t understand do you? It’s you or it’s never for me. And Bucky too.”

“There’s never gonna be a we if you’re not in,” Metal fingers curl under his jaw, turning his face so he can seen Bucky’s storm grey eyes serious and unyielding. When Tony begins to shake his head, Bucky’s not shy to squeeze his cheeks and grab his attention back. “We’d be too broken to complete each other without you, Tony. Can you? Have a relationship with either of us without the other?”

Tony takes a moment to think about that. All these while, he’d been so focused on how Steve and Bucky can move on without him but he’d never put himself in place of Steve or Bucky. He’d never thought how will it be if Tony is to move on with either Steve or Bucky without the other and that – That just is frighteningly _impossible_. Even if he does end up with one of them, he doesn’t think he’d be capable of happiness. He knows for a fact that he’s going to think about the one that got away, every single second he’s left alone with his mind and that is not going to be a precursor of a healthy relationship. Ultimately, it’s gonna break. _He’s_ going to break.

“No.” He shakes his head. Teeth gritting because he can’t even fathom that thought. It feels like a part of him will always be empty and that’s when he realises just how fucked he is. Just how much of him he’d unknowingly given away to these two Brooklyn boys.

Steve’s thumb is delicate under his eyes. “Exactly,” he says. And he doesn’t look on bit mocking or smug to get a point across but simply solemn. As if he’d just shared that thought with Tony and he’s as affected as Tony feels too.

And that’s the thing with Steve, Tony thinks mutely. His empathy. Or perhaps, it’s the way he just _gets_ Tony. No words needed, but Steve is always going to know what he’s thinking about. Their frequency matches terrifyingly perfect.

Maybe it’s because Steve and him have had some years together, while with Bucky, everything is new, but so far the threading had been smooth and Tony has no doubt that it will be smooth all along. Just look at the way Steve and Bucky gravitate around each other. Partly, chemistry and partly, years and _years_ of acclimatization with one another and Tony can seen how Steve and himself are getting there and he wants that with Bucky too. He wants that with the both of them.

Call him greedy, he’d concede because Tony is like that. Shameless. He’s fine with it. He’s already being incredibly selfish, slotting himself in between two hunk of men, he’s all too fine with being called a greed at this rate.

And he’d be fucking proud of it.

Steve and Bucky want him and he wants them too. So, why all the hassle? Why work hard to extract yourself from the equation when you can already an obvious solution right, there. Isn’t that what Rhodey was trying to get him to understand.

Hence, when Steve smiles and asks him if it’s okay to kiss him, Tony clutches the back of his head and gives his all.

Contrary to the first time they kissed, he pushes until Steve gives – no gentleness, no doubts, no waiting around to see if it was okay because it is okay – and Tony takes. Without any reservations, he gives back just as good, breathing through his nose, scooting over so he’s straddling Steve’s lap and they don’t know if the coffee table will hold up but fuck. Who even cares when Steve sucks on his tongue like _that_?

His hands, cradling Tony’s hips and back with careful strength, pulling and pulling that it feels like they’re moulded into one. No endings, no beginnings, and Tony’s very aware of metal fingers clutching onto the base of his skull, giving the subtle pressure as to push Tony into Steve and he lets Bucky dictate him like that, heat flaring throughout his body and he burns with aching desire.

The second Steve gives, Bucky’s there to pick up the notch, tilting his head up to slot their mouth together perfectly and he tastes both of Steve and himself and Tony hums into his sure mouth, sucking on his kiss-swollen lips just like he wanted. He sees the way Bucky plays with Steve’s parted lips, fingertips caressing and pressing into his open mouth and the way Steve looks, drunken, at both Tony and Bucky making out is too much all at once.

Just as he wonders if they were going to up it to next level, Bucky pulls away with a gentle brush to his cheeks. Locking eyes with Steve when he turns to him and Tony shudders from the intense way they look at each other – weighted silence, with so many unspoken things between them and yet, there’s a firm understanding in there. And he’s not wrong when Steve turns to Tony and orders, “You’re gonna get some sleep, okay?”

“Stevie and I are gonna have that talk you asked us to have.” Bucky smiles at him, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead and Tony is honestly rendered speechless with that gesture as he gawks at him. Bucky flicks him right on the spot where he kissed just for that and Steve scowls at him.

“Not nice, Buck.”

“Oh, what. You want in too?” And he proceeds to give a flick to Steve too who simply scowles harder while palming his forehead and he looks half a decade younger like that, fond exasperation swirling in his eyes and Bucky with that air of rebellion and smugness, that the sight inevitably puts a smile of Tony’s face.

“I get it, boys. You wanna do some ‘catch up’.” He air-quotes, “All you gotta do is ask and I’ll be on my way.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to scowl now. “Thought I already told you to not be presumptuous, doll face. Sides, if we’re gonna be getting anything on, you’ll be the first one to know.”

“Doll face?” Tony gapes, while Steve rolls his eyes affectionately. “You’re not the only one with the knack for nicknames, Tony.”


	11. out of reach (stuckony) - alternate ?ending 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is from when bucky interupts tony's phone call with pepper while the delivery truck unloads.

Tony gawks at the now beeping phone in his hand. “She never listens to me.”

“Who never listens to you.” Tony startles, spinning on his heel and coming face to face with Bucky Barnes.

He stumbles a step back in surprise, phone clutched close to his chest. “You look like you’re seeing a ghost.” Bucky comments, a teasing smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Not a ghost. But well, close enough.

They’ve been working together, hand in hand. Spending almost all their hours together. Watching the two super soldiers work their asses off under Tony’s command for a change is, he must admit, incredibly arousing. Especially making when he thinks it in line with the realisation that he’s bossing Captain America and the notorious Winter Soldier around; hold this, bring me that, crack the wall snowflake, I need heavy lifts cap, and so on. Sure, Tony’s enjoying himself. But so far, Tony is yet to face only one of them without the other to buffer. It has been merciful as long as it lasted, he guesses. Maybe it’s also merciful that he’s forced to face Bucky Barnes first.

Not that Tony fears facing Steve. But. Okay, yeah. Tony fears facing Steve Rogers alone. It’s just, less complicated with Bucky. He’s easier to deal with when it comes to emotions. Perhaps because both Bucky and him are so good in sprinting past the talks about feelings; hate dwelling and analysing them. A brief sort of, _“You fine with this? Yes? No? Okay, good,”_ is their pace while with Steve. Wow. Steve is more extensive and thorough. He likes to know the nooks and crannies of Tony’s emotional well-being. He also lays out his own nooks and crannies willingly in turn but damn, it’ll be lengthy and maybe it’s for the best. Because then, they’ll get everything in the light and clear them out for good, while Bucky and Tony’s less lengthy, more fleeting route will only come around and bite them on the arse in the future.

This is why they need Steve.

“Got bored tagging another centenarian?” Tony asks mildly, disguising his nerves by tapping furiously at his phone. When Bucky doesn’t answer, he looks up. Then he remembers – god, it really has been so long since they’ve both hung out together, just them – that this is how Bucky Barnes communicates. Unless you’re looking at him, he is not saying a word.

“Was wondering what was taking our half centenarian so long.”

Tony tries not to keen under Bucky’s intense eyes. “Excuse you, I’m not even fifty!” He gasps, clutching the phone to his chest.

Bucky raises one eyebrow accompanying a blooming smug smirk. “But you’re ours. Right?”

Momentarily stumped, Tony resembles a fish out of water while the other man’s smirk keeps widening until a grin splits across his face and Jesus. He’s so fucking _beautiful._ Tony can’t help but get lost in his rare happy glows. The man is just – there’s always something raw about everything that revolves him. Even his exhibition – which he doesn’t do so often – of those emotions are stunningly raw. It makes Tony’s brain go; “ _Yep. This here is why you’re head over heels with him.”_ And it’s fine. If anything, the Brooklyn Boys made it clear to him that he’s wanted. By both of them. And it’s okay for Tony to want them too.

“You okay there, doll?” Bucky tilts his head sideways. Bastard knows the effect he has on Tony! He fucking knows and yet he dares to ask. Tony should be irritated by that but then there are strong, warm fingers wrapping around his elbow and tugging him closer to where Bucky stands, tall and, wow, and Tony forgets what he’s thinking about.

“Doll?” He repeats like a puppet, drawn out strings pulled and controlled by Bucky Barnes while Tony blinks at him and throws what he says back at him like an idiot. The glint in Bucky’s eyes sparkle for a wild moment, catching Tony off guard, effectively distracting him from noticing the way the soldier leans in and murmurs lowly into his ear, “I’ll gladly have you begging for me on your knees right this second, Tony but you have incoming on your six in 3, 2, -,”

“Mr Stark?”

Startled, Tony spins on his heels to address the call. “That would be me.” He coughs to clear his dry throat. He feels the cold draft hit him from where Bucky stood and his stomach drops in realising that he’s no longer there.

He signs the delivery papers in a daze, skimming through the numbers and words, relying faithfully on FRIDAY to have gone through the softcopies thoroughly before allowing these men in. His mind keeps reminding him of ‘begging’ and ‘on knees’ on loop. It’s a little garish, but who is he kidding. It absolutely fitting to who he is.

Worse, his helpful brains makes some notes in the section where Bucky Barnes is concerned; his likes and dislikes and he starts a new column for ‘fetishes’. Tony wonders what Steve’s will be like? Will he also, enjoy Tony being on his knees, begging? Or will he be the one to hold Tony and guide him to Bucky? Or will he be watching? Post first orgasm (because, Tony’s pretty sure super soldiers come with super refractory phases) and he’ll be all bedroom eyes and swollen red lips, parted, studying with scholastic curiosity how Tony goes down on Bucky? Will Bucky arrange them just so Steve can get the perfect view?

“Jesus.” Tony shudders, watching the garage door close with a screeching noise.

-

The scary thing is, it’s so _easy_. To now, put himself between Steve and Bucky. After spending long hours with them without ever feeling like he’s third-wheeling whatsoever; especially when they both conspire against Tony to get him fed on time or make him get his power naps with doting sort of intensity, it’s hard to feel left out. Even more, to argue that they’re just looking at Tony like a pit stop.

They _want_ him – by some miracle, they want him, the both of them that is - and with every second that passes with three of them together, they make sure Tony knows that.

Tony crumples the papers before realising what he’s doing and slides them on one of the tables lying around in the garage. He has so many things to think about. Or maybe there really is nothing to think about anymore. It’s confusing. A little. He had a plan when he headed back from Rhodey’s. Then he panicked and ruined it – or maybe he didn’t ruin it. Maybe it just paused things and he can still do it, right? He can still go in there, and –

“Tony?”

This time it’s Steve.

“Bucky said you’d be done by now. What are you doing still?” Blue eyes regard him curiously. It’s oddly endearing that they can’t seem to go half an hour without Tony. Worrisome, to an extent, but it’s not like they’re obsessive or possessive because well, Tony can think of a hundred reasons why that’s not that, but yeah. It’s… nice.

Tony takes lungsful of air. “Yeah, I’m done.” He waves a hand forth, gesturing Steve to go ahead, he’ll follow. But Steve doesn’t move.

“Is everything okay?” Steve asks, but his fingers fidget giving away his nerves.

Tony squints at him. Eyes staying on long set of fingers. He remembers when they used to run through his hair. He also wants to take them into his own hands and hold them. The last time Steve touched him, held him, was when Tony panicked. Which was what? Three days ago. And before that, Tony basically accused him of assault because again, he panicked because Steve kissed him and proposed an arrangement, like an adult, while Tony fled, like a kid. Also an asshole – sort of like an assholish kid then.

Fuck, there’s so many things that he did Steve wrong. And he fucking _miss_ him.

“I don’t know Steve. You tell me.” He notices that he’s still walking towards Steve. Then he deliberately continues closing in. He has an impulse jumping out of his veins now. He doesn’t know how advisable it is, but Steve looks as vulnerable as when Tony hugged him for the first time, but there’s a stiffness to his shoulders that’s distinctly different from then, and Tony’s been yearning, too deeply, for too long. So in a way, impulsive, but it’s long time coming.

When their chests meet, breath hot and rushed on their skin, Tony gives him a faint warning. “I’m tired of running,” he says, and he closes the last distance between them; hands holding Steve’s arms for leverage as he tips up on his toes a little to press careful lips on the corner of Steve’s mouth. Then he whispers his intent into the skin there. “You’re right. I want you both.” And when he parts his lips once more, Steve tilts his head and catches them; painfully gentle, as if he’s worried he’ll break Tony if he goes in harder than that. It’s ridiculously endearing. Especially when he lifts his large hands with long, long fingers to cradle Tony’s head so very cautiously, shifting his weight so he hunches and curls around Tony, easing Tony out of the strained tip-toeing position and he’s soft when he kisses. It’s like the first time all over again but the moment Tony gasps and swipes his tongue out, tasting the corner of Steve’s mouth, he keens.

It’s a beautiful contradiction, between being mindful and needy; the way he groans into Tony’s mouth as he seizes Tony’s weight, lifting him up and up until – oh.

Tony giggles, clutching onto Steve’s arm and nape. Breathy chuckle meets him halfway into a deep kiss. “Snowflakes gonna be jealous.” He warns, going in to caress Steve’s tongue, sucking on it, loving the way Steve moans.

“Let him.” He whispers, clutching onto Tony’s thigh as he keeps him heft, around his hips. “I waited for you longer than he did – God. Tony. Do you even – Do you know how long I wanted this.”

“You’re turning this into a competition now?” Tony asks, mouthing along clean shaven jaw, before clamping around an earlobe and sucking fervently. Steve gasps, hips bucking forth and jesusfuckingchrist!

“Don’t care.” Steve grunts, walking them with a purpose until Tony’s back is flat against a wall and the delicious cold of the cement against his sweltering skin makes Tony tip his head back with a groan. Steve’s hands shift from his thigh to his ass, hefting him higher and wow. That feels like a lot like a heavy hard on pressing between his cleft and wow, that feels so good. “He knew what he was doing when he sent me down here.”

Tony lets out a breathy laugh, letting Steve mouth along his throat, finding the patch of skin beneath where his jaw ends and his ear begins and suck on it reverently, firing every nerve endings in his body and short cutting the blood supply to his brain, reverting all of them down south. “Fuck.” He breathes appreciatively.

-

When they climb up, a good heated and uninterrupted forty minutes later, Tony concedes that Steve may be very right about how Bucky Barnes planned for this to happen. Regardless, he still reeks of guilt when he meets said man’s eyes after. While Steve walks past him with a smug air, sharp nose stiff in the air as Bucky turns to glare at him. “Didn’t even bother to wait.”

“Right, like you didn’t know what was gonna happen when you sent me down.” Steve shot him over his shoulder, already bending over to pick up his discarded gloves from the floor.

Tony stood, blinking at both men, trying to understand, even mildly, their weird dynamic.

“You could have the decency at least.” Bucky grunts, picking up a rubble and tossing it at Steve’s head.

The rubble meets its target, crumbling into sands and tinier fragments while Tony gawks. But Steve simply shrugs. “I liked him first.”

 _What the fuck?_ Tony thinks in pure bewilderment.

“Punk.” Bucky throws another handful of rubbles at Steve before standing up, marching purposely towards Tony and dipping him to kiss. Fucking dipped him. If Tony isn’t so confused trying to read the kind of relationship those ancient super soldiers shared, he’d notice abruptly how expansive Bucky Barnes is, when it comes to physical affection. But it takes a long deep kiss to work that out.

Where Steve was gentle and heedful, Bucky swoops and gathers Tony with crass strength but there must be some kind of intricate level of control there because he never slips and bruises or hurt Tony. But he’s there, rough and raw; fingers digging into Tony’s sides deliciously, while he supports the entirety of Tony’s weight, mouth pressing and he _bites_. He licks and he nibbles on Tony’s lips, luscious aches, sharp, needle prick like pain shooting up his nerve endings all over his mouth but never bleeding. Not even a single puncture of vermillion. It’s intense, wiping the present under Tony’s feet and stealing him into somewhere more profound and all-consuming, where only Bucky Barnes exist, and nothing - nobody else.

When Tony blinks to reality, he realises it’s been a while since Bucky stopped kissing him. Instead, he’s watching Tony, no longer dipping him, just holding his weight until Tony gets his bearing on his own two jelly like feet with marvel in his hypnotizing eyes and Tony notices Steve sitting smugly on a table in the corner, but the grey-blue eyes are commanding on him and he gulps, bringing a hand up to cup stubble covered cheek. Bucky nuzzles and kisses his palm as Tony asks his age old question, “Are your eyes blue or grey?” in a daze.

He hears a snort, but it’s not Bucky or Tony, so it must be Steve. He turns to look at him, still feeling like he’s floating still. It’s been a winding day. A great one but wow, has it been taxing. All the emotional intensities and confession and coming clean and starting a relationship – this is a start right? This means they’re in a relationship now, right? Well, he hopes so, because this is – This is –

“What did you do to him, Buck?” Steve asks, don’t know when he moved but there he is now, fore and front, right in front of Tony, bracketing Bucky between them as Tony stares at him, mouth parted, over Bucky’s metal plated shoulder. He reaches across Bucky, thumb brushing over Tony’s bruised lip and Tony winces, feeling the soreness from the rough way Bucky had kissed him. Steve looks at him apologetically, cupping his jaw extra gently. “Buck,” he starts to reprimand but his boyfriend is quick to interrupt. “Don’t be extra dumb Stevie, he clearly likes it.”

He bites Tony’s lower lip and tugs just to prove his point and as Tony moans, helpless over Bucky Barnes sinful charms, Steve’s bright blue eyes darken in realisation. His hand around Tony’s jaw tightens marginally as Steve tentatively exercises his strength, squeezing just so Tony’s mouth opens and Bucky seizes that opportunity to dive in, plunging hot tongue into Tony’s wet mouth. Steve’s groan is low and worshipful when he murmurs Tony’s name like a prayer.

“He’s so gone for me, Stevie.” Bucky murmurs in wonder, nosing under Tony’s jaw while Steve helpfully tilts his head back for him, fingers playing with the short curls at the back of Tony’s neck. And he’s right. He is _so_ fucking right. There’s something about Bucky Barnes; his magnetic pull, the way he seduces Tony that is like a fucking spell. There’s absolutely nothing Tony can do but follow him like a puppy, the need to submit ringing in desperation through 273 of his bones. It’s wicked but Tony loves, loves, _loves_ it.

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve breathes in awe. The way he reacts, completely enthralled by the kind of reaction Tony has for Bucky tells that this wicked spell of Bucky Barnes doesn’t extend to his childhood pal. Tony doesn’t know how to feel about that. He’s not feeling particularly weak or cheated but Steve seems enamoured by what’s going on, so maybe they’ll ride this ride and think about it later. As for now, Tony really cannot bring his neurons to connect and _think._

All too soon, Bucky pulls away, his own lips look brilliantly swollen while he cups Tony’s cheeks, giving a slight shake. “Hey. Tony. Doll, look at me.” Tony does, prying his focus away from Bucky’s mouth to focus on his still intense, but half hooded eyes. A third hand swoops in to tilt Tony’s jaw up, closing his mouth shut before Steve leans in to press a kiss to his temple, stealing Tony’s attention. But it’s Bucky who speaks, in his ever gruff ‘I prefer not to talk but looks like I have to cause I can only tolerate so much stupidity before I stab someone’ voice. “I don’t know what Stevie told you -,”

“I told him enough.” Steve huffs, uncharacteristically petulant. But Bucky continues, uncaring.

“ – but I have to make sure you’re clear that we both love you and we want you.” Tony nods. Steve makes an offended sound.

“I told you!” He exclaims at Bucky who shoots a stern glare at him. Tony wonders if it’ll be rude or entirely appropriate to laugh at these two buffons because, dear lord. Who would have thought that when history wrote poetry in their names, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers are actual twelve years olds in vicinity of each other. _Children._

“And I hope you feel the same for us too.” Bucky interrupts his thoughts, metal thumb brushing over his cheekbone in surprising amount of softness that Tony tears his entire focus to round up on the man in front of him; stiff shoulder and hard clench of jaw but the insecurity in his flickering grey-blue eyes are evident tell to his fragile soul. It reminds Tony of the nights Bucky spent on the roof, curled in Tony’s bed with him. Of late night baking and fuck, if Tony doesn’t feel the urge to wrap the man up in a secure bundle and store him away somewhere safe well up in him.

“I do.” He tells him seriously, covering one flesh and one metal hand in his own and relishing in the familiar oddity of the cold/warmth sensation coursing through his sensory nerves. He catches Steve’s eyes over Bucky’s shoulder; a much warmer and surer blue that grounds his conviction and lets him refocus on Bucky once more. “I love you. And I love Steve. I want you both and by some miracle or crazy default in the programme, you both want me too, so that’s, that’s very nice and assuring. Anyway, what I’m saying is that, yes. I want you both and I, yes. I mean. Are we in relationship now? Cause I hope we are, I mean, I immediately -,”

“Tony.” This time, it’s Steve who speaks. Unlike the petulant tone he puts on with Bucky, it’s the voice that Tony grew to love; shut in the workshop together for nights, hunting for the Winter Soldier and cuddling up on movie nights, etcetera. It’s a stark difference compared to the way he speaks with Bucky but Tony wouldn’t give anything to change it. It makes him feel somewhat, special. As petty that may sound; a reminder that he affect Steve in a different way compared to Bucky. Even if the love is the same, it’s just – it’s nice.

“Yes, we are in a relationship.” Steve smiles lovingly at him while Bucky takes that chance to plant a big one on Tony’s mouth.

“Forgive, Stevie, doll. He doesn’t know how to court or how to shut someone up the best.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “You’re just rude, kissing people mid sp -,”

“Sure, like you don’t like that.” Bucky smirks, once he resurfaces from smacking Steve’s mouth shut with his own. Then to Tony, he says. “I’m going to take you on the best date of your life.”

“What’d you mean, you’re going to take. What am I going to do?” Steve protests in chagrin.

“You plan your own date, punk. You can’t just waddle my way and enjoy the pay for my work. Ain’t fair.”

“You’re an ass!”

“Well, you’re a spoiled brat.”

“I’m not sure I know what I signed up for.” Tony mutters under his breath.


	12. out of reach (stuckony) - alternate ?ending 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is after chapter 9. i almost sent steve on a mission then i remembered that tony was supposed to go on a business trip heh

When Tony wakes up, he’s disorientated. It takes a few seconds for him to remember where he is; granted, it’s not always that he falls asleep on the couch in the middle of a movie and even when he did, it has only been with Steve and when the realisation hits that it hasn’t only been Steve with him this time, he blinks wide awake, all remnant of sleep bled out as the ceiling dances fluidly between dimmed golden hue and dull grey.

He gathers the golden hue is from the kitchen, where when he can strain himself enough, he can hear muffled conversation.

“It’s not the same.” He hears the distinct gruffness of Bucky’s voice, feeling like several eggs cracked open on his head; chills running down his spine as his insecurity alarm blares: _Are they talking about me?_

It’s a petty thought, but it’s only given since it’s only barely been a few days since they’ve started teasing themselves with the idea of poly-exclusivity. And Tony has about an entire brain dedicated for insecurity and what not. But as soon as he hears the low hum of Steve’s voice – “How so? - all the tension bleeds out of his muscles and he sinks heavily down the couch, carefully breathing out as evenly as possible. Something about the way Steve speaks tells that this is not about him.

It’s bad to eavesdrop, but he really doesn’t want to interfere the reuniting love birds. It’s already difficult it is to see them talking like normal people do, when they resolutely stick to wordless communication almost all the time. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep, neither eagerly listening nor fighting against it.

“I don’t remember everything, Steve. It’s – It’s bits and pieces. Sometimes, I do something or I see you doing something and it comes to me in flashes. But even then. It’s not like. I just see them, y’know? Like watching a movie.”

“But. Do – urm. Do you remember -,”

“Us? Yeah.”

Something grips tight within Tony. Even when he’s just lying there, being a fly in the wall, he can’t help but feel for them, what they’ve lost; stolen from them. They’re quiet for a very long time and Tony’s finally drifting back to sleep that when Bucky speaks up, he startles.

“I love you, Stevie. I remember loving you, more than I remember loving anything else. It’s what saved me – _is_ saving me. You and,” He breathes, the huff of soft laughter which sounds strange to Tony’s ear. This may be the first time hearing Bucky Barnes laugh, Tony wonders in awe. “I never apologized for stealing your fella, have I?”

Tony’s stops breathing.

“Bucky. You don’t have to. He loves you too.”

“Good. Cause I wasn’t planning to apologize. He…,”

“Yeah.” Steve sighs, and Tony exhales with him; slow and shaky.

“We’re lucky.”

Steve chuckles. “Tony would beg to differ, but yeah. Yeah, we are.”

“Idiot.” Bucky recalls fondly and Tony basks in it, lips stretching on their own accord as he puts an arm over his face and forces himself to sleep. Steve’s happiness and Bucky’s affection is the last palpable comfort to lull him to dreamland.

-

The next time he wakes up, he’s in his bed, covered by a hefty comforter from head to toe. It’s a miracle how he’s still breathing with his head smooshed into the pillow like that. He groans, tossing away the comforter and the sheet with it, suffocating feeling creeping its way in as soon as he realises the state he’s in. He stretches, huffing and puffing, already feeling pessimistic about the day even before it begins. It takes a minute before he starts wondering how he ended up in here. He still remembers vividly waking up in the middle of the night to Steve and Bucky’s muffled conversation, then falling asleep in the same couch, making very sure he didn’t let the Brooklyn boys know he’d awaken. So then how –

_“Tony. Hey. Tony, Sam called. Tony?” A broad press of warmth against his cheek. Some nudges, more warmth._

_A cold boop to his nose. “Not sure he’s awake.”_

_Hushed arguments. Tony tossed and turned. “Hmmgrh.”_

_“Tony?”_

_A shocking sensation of cold pressing all over his face. Pushing him back into the warm comfort._

_“Buck!”_

_“Let him sleep. I’ll tell him.”_

_A grumble of sort. Then a weary sigh, followed by a soft press of lips over his forehead and a whispered. “Be back soon,” and a louder, huffier, “Call. If anything at all.”_

_“Fuck off, punk.”_

Oh. Well, maybe that would explain why his subconscious is so hard-up on the day being unexciting one. Steve’s out. On a mission. Except… Tony perks up; ah, the wonder of having two lovers: Bucky’s around. At least he should be, unless he left somewhere too which is less than 1% chance of happening, so, Bucky’s still around and Tony had been thinking about spending some time with him. A date, maybe? Although that gives a distinctly high probability of coming around to bite his ass vibe; given Steve and Bucky’s equation, if anything he learnt from their little spat a few days ago is to go by, they’re two childish idiots and there’s no promises that Bucky will use this opportunity to gloat at Steve for going on a date with Tony before Steve did.

Although, does Tony really care about that?

He ponders for a minute and decides, well, heh. It’s not like those little spats aren’t funny, so…

What he didn’t expect though, is for Bucky Barnes to be thinking ahead of him.

An array of breakfast fit for a mass lays on their usually barren dining table. From fruits to sausages and bread loaves; Tony thought for a minute that he’d transcended time into the medieval period. Dungeons and Dragons, Merlin, Game of Thrones; whatever. The lack of Yorkshire pudding is the only reason he didn’t assume it’s Hogwarts’ feast. Bucky Barnes sits at the end of the table, watching him carefully.

“Did you slaughter a pig too?” Tony asks him, a maddening grin licking at the corner of his mouth, yearning to give away his amusement. It’s grand and unnecessary, but he can’t help but be faltered.

“Pig was sleeping.” Bucky grunts, his clever eyes carefully controlled to appear dull and unimpressed even as the bright sun light filters in, spilling rainbows on the floor. He’s got his mane tied up, Tony notices; a careless top not which shouldn’t be as flattering as it appears on him. Tony would feel envy for the man, in return for the mass of h, air product he has to spend on because his bed-head is the worst, but he doesn’t. Not even a tinge. Because Bucky Barnes is his, he thinks proudly. Not only Steve’s but Tony’s too. Which makes it sound objectifying but really, that’s not what Tony implies in his head, it’s … well, to save him the embarrassment, let’s just say that when he thinks along that line, Tony decisively thinks he belongs to Bucky and Steve too. Body and soul. Mind will always be their respective ones’ because no one tempers with other’s conscious, not even in the romantic way. Not really Tony’s comfort.

“You calling me a pig?” He gasps, squinting his eyes at the man.

Bucky Barnes rolls his eyes, standing up to pull out a chair next to him. “You sleep like one.” The gesture is performed with such careful casualness – let me talk trash while I behave a perfect gentleman – that Tony has to stop and think if he’s such an egomaniac for falling for Bucky because this is the sort of thing he masters in. _All bullshit talks but golden heart_ , as Pepper likes to say.

He accepts the seat with a pat to Bucky’s shoulder, keeping his eyes on the mountains of food in front of him – is that fondue? – that he jolts when Bucky leans in to tuck napkin into his shirt. Yep, Tony thinks. This is _not_ the kind of shit Tony would do. Not an egomaniac then. Isn’t that a relief.

He lets Bucky assemble a plate for him, smiling when he pushes the large mug of coffee into Tony’s hand before anything. “Did you even sleep?” He asks around a cherry tomato. Bucky pauses, a shake to his head before he starts slicing the ham with a newfound vengeance. Tony regards him carefully, pulling the napkin off his collar to wipe his mouth and lining it on his lap instead, then he leans into the other man’s space to press a kiss to his temple. “This is great.” He says. “Thank you.”

Bucky’s hands ease their motion, relaxing. Tony spots a little wobble to the corner of his mouth, a beginning of a smile and he takes another leap and presses his own mouth there too. Huffing a laughter when Bucky’s head snaps in his direction and he leans back, tucking into his plate innocently. “How about a nap in the shop after this?” He suggests, pushing a slice to toast into Bucky’s plate.

“Too optimistic.” The man grumbles, glaring at the toast as if it had personally offended him. Tony stabs a slice of ham into his mouth, “Or you can just hang out there, I’ve got something to revise before I report to duty tomorrow.” Bucky grunts, pushing a glass of orange juice in Tony’s direction.

They eat a few more bites, Tony finding his stomach expanding gradually and he stops to reach out for the strawberries, dipping a skewer of them into the chocolate fondue before sitting back. “How did you get all this.”

Bucky shrugs. “Harold Hogan.” He says, shovelling eggs into his mouth.

Tony pauses in the middle of bringing the chocolate covered strawberries into his mouth. A splatter of melted chocolate falls on the table. “Happy?” He balks, voice going slightly squeaky. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or what. He can visualize how it must have been for Happy, to walk in, finding a moody Winter Soldier grunting and huffing for response, _if_ Bucky bothered to respond at all.

“Didn’t look too happy.” Bucky mumbles, stealing a strawberry off of Tony’s plate, wiping the drop of chocolate on the table and frowning at the one dripping down Tony’s hand. “Eat.” He says. Tony takes a bite, laughing around the mouthful, and when Bucky pulls his chocolate covered hand to wipe, he yanks back. “N’uh.” He shakes his head. Hurrying to chew and swallow the fruit. “Tell me what happened.”

Bucky keeps his eyes fixed on Tony’s hand, glaring as he recounts grumpily, “He came in, asked what you want for breakfast -,”

“You didn’t say a thing did you?” Tony chuckles, bringing his chocolate covered pinky to his mouth, preening when blue-grey eyes grow wide and he makes sure to make the motion as insinuating as possible as he drags his tongue up the outer side of his pinky, slow and lingering at the tip.

Bucky swallows audibly. “No. I didn’t.”

“So he ordered everything.” Tony hums, sealing his mouth around his wrist, where his pinky ends, catching the biggest smudge of the chocolate drip. Then he unseals his mouth but keeps the tip of his tongue swirling, dragging it up to the tip of his little finger once more before he gently mouths around it and sucks.

Bucky’s fingers twitch around the butter knife. He darts his own tongue to run over his lower lip. “I told him you were hungry.” He says, voice low and rough, eyes fixed reverently on Tony’s mouth. Tony realises, blood pumping south and cheeks heating, that in the span of that conversation, they’ve both have come to lean ever so closely to each other. A little closer and Tony can feel Bucky’s breath on his skin.

He leans in.

Bucky’s breath catches. Tony’d laugh, except he isn’t breathing evenly himself and frankly, that’ll be hypocritical. “Hey.” He says, curling his clean fingers around Bucky’s jaw, covering his mouth with his with relieved sigh. The chair’s legs creak over the linoleum floor as Bucky drags him in, metal hand cupping the back of his head, abandoning the clattering butter knife and his warm, flesh and bone hand curling around Tony’s neck, thumb brushing along his jaw, pressing at the end, prompting Tony to open his mouth, letting Bucky in. Tongues curling hotly as they taste and flicker while they breathe each other; air hot and heady, spinning Tony’s mind into oblivion.

It’s hotter than their first kiss, when Bucky hefted him onto the kitchen counter and had his way with him. This time, he’s as passionate, but wickedly slower as he coaxes his way into and around Tony’s mouth, licking and tasting every inch of him, while he hum, pleasantly, smiling against Tony’s lips when Tony grins. The hastiness and clumsiness from their first kiss distinctly absent. He cups Tony’s face, metal hand falling to grip his hip and he sucks on Tony’s lower lip until Tony moans. Planting a chaste kiss there as he drags his saliva slick mouth down Tony’s throat, pausing to nibble where he wants while his metal fingers push and push the shirt up, trailing goosebumps along their path as they feel Tony’s body.

“Fuck, doll. You’re so hot.” He murmurs into Tony’s collarbone. “Think if I have you first, Stevie will be pissed?” He bites, pulling a whimper out of Tony and Tony keens; for his words and for the way he plays Tony’s taught cords cleverly with his fingers. The cold and heat of him is delicious contradicting, like lust and passion; one bites while the other sings. Tony embraces both, willingly let Bucky take him as he want.

“Although I would like to see you take Stevie. Inch by inch. You good at taking, sugar?” Tony moans, tilting his head back as Bucky leaves prints after prints of himself there. One after another, heathen.

Steve. Right. Yeah. “I can take both of you.” Tony chuckles, pulling Bucky closer, one hand fisting around his long hair while the other he uses to dip down the sculpted torso, queuing up for the pants’ buckle. He smirks, when he feels the long line of erection pushing against the denim along his wrist. Bucky’s soft gasp is alluring and Tony ducks his head down, tugging him away from his neck by his hair to kiss his mouth; swollen and pink, slick with spit and Tony taste them earnestly.

“You’re dangerous, doll.” Bucky pants against his mouth, smelling of strawberries and coffee and Tony leans to taste them again, mumbling, “I’m not the one with a metal arm, stud.”

“You got a fetish for my arm, Stark?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Bucky laughs, a husky rich base that lights Tony’s spine on fire. Playfully, he bite onto Tony’s lower lip and tugs, teeth not sinking but the feel of them, almost piercing through his skin drives him crazy with wants. “How do you want them?” He asks, wiggling his metal fingers in front of Tony, flesh one trailing up his thigh and its inner seam, cupping Tony’s hard on with a gentle squeeze.

“Everywhere.” Tony gasps. “On me. Inside me.” He sneaks his own hand from the waistband of Bucky’s jeans, cupping his erection and squeezing in return.

“Inside you?” Bucky breathes

“Mm hmm.”

A light nip under his jaw and Tony squirms, a giggle bursting out of him. “I hate to be Steve right now.”

It seems to be thing to break Bucky; momentarily leaving Tony cold to his bones as he pulls away to stand up before hoisting the man over his shoulder with least amount of dignity Tony has ever worn in his life. Still better than when Pepper caught him with his junk caught in the zipper and DUM-E being the helping hand.

“This is rude but incredibly arousing.” He huffs, slapping those pert bottoms of super soldier as he dangles over his shoulder. He receives one in return, metallic and hard enough to make Tony whine but not too hard to leave a bruise. The hand stays, squeezing minutely as Bucky marches him back to his room.

“You like me carrying you?”

“I like you manhandling me, specifically.”

Bucky laughs, a short breathy huff. Tony feels fondness aching for him; hearing Bucky laugh makes him ridiculously happy, he can’t help it. “I’ll manhandle you more from now, then.”

A punch of arousal surges through Tony and he bites back a groan, especially when Bucky timed those words with a good squeeze to his ass cheek, fingers slipping and lingering between the indent of his cleft, dragging. “Gonna toss me around, Seargent?”

Bucky stills, coming to a stop right in front of the elevator. Tony freezes over his shoulder, brain rewinding what he had just said. Did he trigger something? Did he say something wrong?


End file.
